The patrolman jogged along the shoulder, leading the Porsche to a roadblock. The street was a nightmare tangle of shoppers trying to get out of the mall, gawkers trying to drive past the murder scene, and the normal traffic on and off the interstate. The patrolmen had given up trying to control the crush and had settled for getting as many people out of the mall as possible. At the roadblock, the patrolman leading Lucas said something to the others, and they stopped traffic, directed a car out of the way and let Lucas slip through to the parking lot.
“Thanks,” Lucas yelled as he went through. “I came through that storm—it’s a bad one, with hail. If you got rain gear . . .”
The patrolman nodded and waved him on.
Television vans and reporters’ cars were lined up on the perimeter of the lot, a hundred yards from a battered brown Chevy. All four doors on the car were open and emergency lights bathed it in a brilliant showroom illumination. Lucas left his Porsche in a pod of squad cars and walked toward the Chevy.
“Davenport, over here.” A cop in a short blue jacket, who’d been talking to another cop in a sweater, called to him, and Lucas walked over.
“John Barber, Maplewood,” said the cop in the jacket. He had pale blue eyes and a long lantern jaw. “And this is Howie Berkson . . . . Howie, go on over and tell that TV bunch it’ll be another twenty minutes, okay?”
As Berkson walked away, Barber said, “C’mon.”
“Any question whether it’s the same guy?” Lucas asked.
Barber shrugged. “I guess not. One of your people is running around out here . . . Shearson? He says the technique is the same. Wait’ll you see her face.”
Lucas went and looked, and turned away, and they started a circle around the car. “Looks like him,” he said sourly. “A copycat couldn’t get up that much enthusiasm for it . . . .”
“That’s what Shearson said . . . .”
“Where is he, by the way?” Lucas asked, looking around the lot.
Barber grinned. “He said it looked like we had it under control. I heard he’s looking at shirts over in the mall.”
“Asshole,” Lucas said.
“That’s the feeling we got. By the way, we found a kid who saw the guy.”
“What?” Lucas stopped short. “Saw him?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Barber said. “He was a hundred yards away and wasn’t paying too much attention. Saw the guy’s car, too, but doesn’t have any idea about make or model or even color . . . Didn’t get anything. Says the killer looked like a guy from some comic-book movie.”
“Then how do you know he saw . . .”
“Because he saw the woman walking out toward her car. He wasn’t paying any attention to her, just hanging out, but a minute later, he saw a man by her car, it looked like he was helping her inside. Then, a couple of minutes later, he really doesn’t know how long it was, he sees the guy walking away. And the woman never backs the car out. So the kid thinks—he told us before his mother got here—he thinks this woman is a hooker maybe, doing blow jobs in her car, or maybe she’s dealing dope. That’s the way his head works. And he kind of casually strolls by to take a look . . . .”
“So he saw the guy for sure.”
“Seems like it,” Barber said.
“Let me talk to him.”
The kid was a slender, ragged teenager with skateboard pads on his knees, fingerless gloves, dirty blond shoulder-length hair and a complexion that was going bad. He wore a long-billed hat with the bill turned down and to the side, covering one ear. His mother hovered over him, throwing severe looks alternately at the kid and the police.
“You got a minute?” Lucas asked the kid, when Barber walked him up.
“I guess so, they won’t let me go nowhere,” the kid answered. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, the same gesture Cassie used, half defense, half necessity.
“We would like to go home sometime,” his mother said, spotting Lucas as an authority. “It’s not like . . .”
“This is pretty important,” Lucas said mildly. To the kid, he said, “Why don’t we take a walk down the mall . . . .”
“Can I come?” asked the kid’s mother.
“Sure,” Lucas said reluctantly. “But let your boy tell the story, okay? Any help you give him . . . isn’t help.”
“Okay.” Her head bobbed: she understood that.
“So what does this guy feel like?” Lucas asked, as they started down the length of the mall.
The kid’s forehead wrinkled. “Feel like?”
“What kind of vibrations did he give off? The Maplewood cop, Barber, says you couldn’t see him too clearly, but you must’ve gotten some vibrations. Barber said you thought he looked like some comic-book guy . . . .”
“Not a comic-book guy, a comic-book movie guy,” the kid said. “Did you ever see the movie Darkman?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You oughta. It’s a great movie . . . .”
“His favorite,” his mother clucked. “These kids . . .”
Lucas put his index finger on his lips and she shut up, her face reddening.
“See, there’s this guy Darkman, who gets his face all fuck . . . uh, messed up by these hoods,” the kid said, glancing at his mother. “He tries to put his face back together with this skin that he makes—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Lucas said. “There was something wrong with his face? The guy in the parking lot?”
“I couldn’t see that much, he had this hat. But he moved like Darkman . . . . You gotta see the movie,” the kid said with wide-eyed seriousness. “Darkman moves like . . . I don’t know. You gotta see it. This guy moved like that. Like, I couldn’t see if there was anything wrong with his face, but he moved like there was. With his face kind of always turned away.”
“Did you see him jump the woman?”
“No. I saw her walking out, then I was looking at something else, then I saw him. Then he got in her car, and then he got out, and then he moved away like Darkman. Kind of glided. With that hat.”
“Glided?”
“Yeah. You know, like, most guys just walk. This guy kind of glided. Like Darkman. You gotta see the movie.”
“All right. Anything else? Anything? Did you see him talk to anybody, did he do a little dance, did he do anything . . . ?”
“No, not that I saw. I just saw him walking . . . . Oh yeah, he was juggling his keys, that’s all.”
“Juggling his keys?”
“Yeah. Toss them up, then go like this . . .” The kid mimed a man throwing his keys up, made a quick little double step, snagged them with his off hand.
“Jesus,” Lucas said. “Just once?”
“Naw, he did it a couple, three times.”
They’d stopped walking outside a cutlery store. In the window, a two-foot-long model of a Swiss Army knife continuously and silently folded and unfolded. “What do you do for a living, kid?” Lucas asked. “Still in school?”
“Yeah.”
“You got a good eye,” Lucas said. “You might make a cop someday.”
The kid looked away. “Naw, I couldn’t do that,” he said. His mother prodded him, but he went on. “Cops gotta fuck with people. I couldn’t do that for a living.”
• • •
Lucas left the kid and his anxious mother with a Maplewood cop and used a pay phone to call Cassie. She was supposed to be off, but there was no answer at her apartment. He tried the theater, but no one answered the phone.
“God damn it.” He needed her. He went back outside and found Shearson and Barber standing at the mall entrance. Shearson had a sack under his arm that might have contained a necktie. Rain swept across the lot beyond them, and the floodlights around the death car had been turned off.
“Find everything you needed?” Lucas asked Shearson, tapping the sack with a finger.
“Hey, I’m out here on my own time,” Shearson said. He was wearing a dark cashmere knee-length coat over a pearl-gray suit, with a white shirt, a blue tie with tiny cr
owns on it, and black loafers. His breath smelled of Juicy Fruit.
“You talk to the kid?” Barber asked.
“Yeah. I’d like to get a stenographer over to his place tomorrow, take a statement,” Lucas said. “He told me the guy was juggling his keys, and doing a little dance step when he caught them. I’d like to get him on record for that.”
“Give us a call with questions . . .” said Barber.
“You get something?” Shearson asked, eyebrows up.
“I don’t know,” Lucas said. He trusted Shearson about as far as he could spit a rat. “What’s happening with this shrink you’ve been looking at?”
“He’s the Loverboy, all right,” Shearson said. “He’s hiding something. There aren’t a lot of loose ends to pull on. I think we oughta just sit back for a couple days. Until something new comes up. But Daniel’s got me covering him like whip on cream.”
“Okay . . . Well, I gotta get one last look at this car,” Lucas said.
Barber went with him, the two of them hurrying through the rain with a kind of broken-field lope, shoulders hunched, as though they could dodge the raindrops.
“Your buddy’s got a great wardrobe,” Barber said, tongue in cheek.
“And he’d lose an IQ contest to a fuckin’ stump,” Lucas said.
The body was being moved out of the car, wrapped in sheets. Another Maplewood cop came over and said, “Nothing in the car that looks like a weapon. Nothing but paper—ice cream bar wrappers, candy wrappers, Ding Dong wrappers. The woman lived on junk.”
“All right,” said Lucas. To Barber, he said, “Can you keep me up-to-date?”
“I’ll fax you everything we got in the morning, first thing. We don’t need this clown killing people out here.”
Lucas hadn’t expected much from the scene itself. If a killer had no relationship with the victim, no apparent motive, no rational method of operation, the only things left to find were witnesses or traceable physical evidence. Because a serial killer could pick the time and place, he could pick a situation that minimized his exposure to witnesses. And evidence left behind—semen, in sex-related cases, or blood or skin samples—didn’t help until after the killer was caught.
This attack had been almost perfect. Almost . . .
The storm was dying as Lucas headed west. There was another thunderstorm cell far down to the south, but from I-35W he could see distant jetliner landing lights, going into Minneapolis-St. Paul International from the south, so he knew the storm must be well out downstate.
By the time he got to Cassie’s apartment, the rain had diminished to a barely perceptible drizzle. He went into the entry and rang the bell for her apartment, but there was no answer. He continued up the street to the theater, but the windows there were dark.
Damn. He needed her.
And he found her. She was sitting on his porch steps, a gym bag between her feet.
“How long have you been here?” he asked from the car, as she strolled out to the driveway. “How’d you get here?”
“About twenty minutes—I came on the bus. I would have broken in, but the woman next door keeps watching me out her window,” Cassie said, grinning. She tipped her head toward a lighted window in the next house. An elderly woman peeked out a lighted window in a side door, and Lucas waved at her. She waved back and disappeared.
“She keeps an eye out,” Lucas said. “Besides, you’d need a sledge to get through the doors . . . . Let me get the car inside.”
Cassie waited behind the car as he put it in the garage next to his battered Ford four-by-four.
“Sweatsuit and shoes,” she said, holding up the gym bag as he dropped the garage door. “I thought we could run along the river.”
“In the rain?”
“You could see it going over on the TV radar,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. He took her elbow in his hand and kissed her on the mouth. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” she asked, puzzled by his somber tone.
“We had another killing. Out in Maplewood.”
“Oh, no,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “Is it a theater person?”
Lucas shook his head. “Not as far as we know. It’s a woman who worked at the mall. They’re checking, but she doesn’t seem like she’d be a playgoing type. Certainly didn’t look like an actress.”
“Jesus . . . Like he just picked her out at random?”
“Eenie meenie minie moe,” Lucas said. “And I’ve got something to ask you . . . later.”
“What’s the mystery?”
“I can’t tell you. I want your brain to be fresh. Let’s run.”
Cassie set the pace along the river until Lucas, puffing, slowed her down. “Take it easy,” he said. “Remember, I’m old.”
“Six years older than me,” she said. “At your age, you ought to be able to run a marathon under four, just to be in fair shape.”
“Bullshit,” he grunted. “If you can run a marathon under six, you’re in great shape, for a normal human being, anyway.”
“See, you’re not hurtin’,” she said. “You can still talk.” But she slowed the pace and they stopped at a scenic overlook, walked in circles for a minute, then took off again, this time running away from the river.
“I have to stop at a video store,” Lucas said. “I want to pick up a movie.”
“A movie?”
“A kid at the mall saw the killer. Said he looked like Darkman, in the movie. You see it?”
“No. Heard about it. Supposed to be pretty bad.”
“So we watch it for a few minutes.”
When they got back to the house, Lucas leaned against the garage door, gasping for breath, dangling the plastic bag with the videocassette in one hand.
“I gotta do this more often,” he said. “How far do you think we ran?”
“Three miles, maybe. Enough to crack a sweat.”
“I hate to tell you, but I cracked a sweat about two hundred yards out,” he said.
“Better take a shower,” she said in a low voice. She was standing next to him, and she slipped a hand under his sweatshirt and lightly drew her nails from his nipples to his navel. Lucas shivered and moved against her.
“We’ve got serious business here,” he said, patting her on the butt with the plastic bag.
“Hey—what difference does it make if we look at it now or an hour from now?”
He seemed to think about it, stroking his chin. “Hmm. An argument with a certain persuasive force . . .”
“So let’s take the shower . . . .”
Lucas, still damp from a second shower, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, popped the cassette into his VCR and turned on the television.
“What are we looking for?” she asked.
“I want to see if this Darkman character brings anybody to mind. Don’t study him—just let it percolate.”
The movie unwound, Cassie sitting on the floor in front of the TV. “I see why the kid called it a comic-book movie,” she said a few minutes into it, when Darkman was blown through his laboratory window by an enormous explosion. “It’s all bullshit.”
“Doesn’t bring anybody to mind?”
“Not yet.” She stood up. “Is that peach ice cream still in the freezer?”
“Sure.”
She sat with the ice cream, sucking on the spoon, watching intently. During a scene in which Darkman did a macabre dance, an oil funnel on his head, she frowned and shook her head.
“What?” Lucas asked.
“Run that again.”
He stopped the movie and reran the dance scene.
“Don’t tell me yet,” he said.
“Okay. Keep going.”
He watched her as the movie continued and she got more and more into it. At the end, she said, “Junk, but some parts were strong.”
“So what’d you see?”
She studied him for a moment and then said, “You know, I’m your basic ‘Off the Pigs’ sort of person.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, yeah . . .”
“Me and the people I hang out with.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I really hate the idea of police creeping around and monitoring people and all that . . .”
“Come on, come on . . .”
She looked at the blank TV screen, wrinkled her forehead and said, “Darkman reminds me of a guy at the theater. I mean, he’s completely different. He’s built different, he looks different, but he sort of has . . . the aura of Darkman. He moves like Darkman, sometimes.”
“Okay. Don’t move.”
He hurried back to the spare bedroom, looked around and spotted the Xerox of Redon’s Cyclops still lying on the bed.
“Close your eyes,” he told her, when he got back. “I’m going to hold a paper in front of your face. I want you to look at it for a second, no more, then close your eyes again. You’re trying for a momentary impression . . . . Open your eyes when I say ‘Open.’ ”
“Okay . . .”
He held the Xerox in front of her face and said, “Open.”
Her eyes opened but didn’t close again, and after a little more than a second, he whipped the paper behind his back.
“Jesus,” she whispered. “I feel like a fuckin’ Judas.”
“Who is it?”
“It could be Carlo Druze. You saw him the first day you were at the theater. He was the guy practicing onstage.”
“I knew it,” Lucas said. The thrill of it ran down his spine, and he shuddered. “He’s the goddamned juggler, right? The guy you never see without makeup. I knew I’d seen him.”
“I feel like . . .”
“Fuck that,” he barked. “You saw your friend Elizabeth. You want to look at this woman up in Maplewood? We think he used a screwdriver on her . . . .”
“No, no . . .”
“Are there any good photos of him at the theater? Publicity stuff, anything?”
Cassie nodded, but tentatively. “He’s a very scarred man. He doesn’t like photo sessions. Sometimes he uses cosmetics to cover up . . . but he’s most comfortable in stage makeup. That’s how you usually see him in the publicity shots. Full makeup. I don’t know if there’d be any raw photos . . . .”