Don Pendleton - The Violent Streets

"What's your interest?" she asked finally. She was going to stall.

"Let's say I'm interested in justice."

"You must know I can't divulge information in a rape case," she said. Her voice had become confidential, even though they were clearly alone. "You're wasting your time."

"I don't want the lurid stuff," he said. "I'm not interested in it. My interest lies in what's being done to close the case."

It took her some moments to consider what he had just said. She averted her eyes as she answered.

"A rape can be one of the hardest cases to break, especially where the perpetrator is a stranger to the victim."

"Or when someone upstairs is running interference?"

He had timed that bomb deliberately. He watched her face closely. He saw what he was looking for — angry fire in her eyes... and something more, deep down, when her head snapped up to meet his cool gaze directly.

"What? Now, look, I don't think we should continue..."

"Why were you dumped from the rape squad, Fran?" He asked it softly. "Why now, instead of last month or next year?"

She was stunned.

"Listen, Mr. Whoever, I wasn't..."

She paused in mid-sentence. Then her shoulders seemed to sag, as if she was tired from carrying the weight of the world.

"So, okay," she said. "I was dumped."

"Why?"

She shook her head firmly, sending her barely dry blonde curls into shimmering motion around her face.

"No. You're asking me to reveal department business for a civilian who won't even give me his name."

Bolan fished a nondescript Justice Department ID card out of a breast pocket and skimmed it across to her. It carried the La Mancha alias and was one of the many traveling papers prepared for him by the machinery housed at Stony Man Farm. The card would confirm an identity and official position for him. It was as crucial a device, in many ways, as any weapon in his armory of hardware.

"I'm not a curiosity seeker," he said firmly.

Fran examined the card, then looked at him quizzically.

"What's the federal interest in Toni Blancanales?" she asked.

"None. We were talking about police suppression of evidence.''

The worried look returned.

"Well..." the lady cop began, "I never said that. Don't put words in my mouth, okay?"

"Why were you transferred, Fran?"

"I'm not sure. They called it a promotion, of course, increased departmental status and so on. Goodbye rape unit. I was put into public relations."

Bolan cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't request the move?"

She shook her head, a firm negative.

"They told me about their great need for women in the upper echelons, et cetera, all for the good of the department, you know? And look at the trouble it's got me into already," she added, holding herself to avoid involuntary shivers.

"Who's they?"

"What? Oh, Jack Fawcett, mainly. That's Lieutenant Fawcett, homicide division."

"Does he normally hand out promotions and transfers?"

"The promotion came from upstairs."

"How high?" Bolan asked.

"Sorry. No idea."

"What were you working on when the transfer came down?"

Fran Traynor hesitated. She was obviously reluctant to answer further questions. But looking into his eyes, she found something there that encouraged her to open up.

"I have this theory about... well, in the past thirty months or so, there have been five identical rape-murders here in St. Paul."

It was Bolan's turn to show surprise.

"Identical?"

She nodded animatedly.

"Virtually," she confirmed. "Of course, I'm the only one who seems to think so. But I swear, the M.O.'s are carbon copy. All five victims were found nude, multiple assaults, their throats slashed, and... well, other mutilations."

"And Homicide sees no similarity?"

"Oh, Lieutenant Fawcett will admit certain common elements," she answered, "but he insists that the time factor rules out a single perpetrator."

"How's that?"

"Well, the first killing came eleven months before the next two, and then eighteen months went by before the final pair. Once they start killing, your headcaches normally go at it nonstop until they burn out or take the fall. One-third of all murderers end up as suicides, as a matter of fact..."

"But you have a theory." He was still standing before her as she sat, still exhausted from her ordeal, on the motel bed.

"I believe the intervals between crimes occur when the killer is interrupted, probably by arrest on other charges, or by commitment to an institution," she explained. "Now, the intervals seem too short and irregular for normal sentencing and parole, so..."

"An escapee," Bolan finished for her. The old tightness was back in his gut.

"Exactly," she said, almost shouting it out. "If I can find a man who was locked up during the relevant periods but escaped in time to commit each of the murders... I've got him!"

"What's your progress?" the Executioner asked.

She looked downcast again, losing some of the exhilaration.

"Negative on all local jail records," she said. "I was just starting acanvass of mental institutions when I got kicked upstairs. But from the rapist's M.O. — as far as he got, that is — I believe it is the same man who got Toni Blancanales, and I believe that Toni is the only living eyewitness."

"Who is in charge of the Blancanales investigation now?" he asked.

"Well... Lieutenant Fawcett has indirect authority, in conjunction with someone from the rape unit."

"How does Homicide inherit a rape case?"

She smiled dryly. "R.H.I.P., mister. Rank hath its privileges."

"So what happens to your pet theory, Fran?"

"I still have my friends on the unit," she said. "A transfer doesn't change that. Between us, we'll finish the canvass of sanitariums sooner or later."

"Make it sooner," Bolan advised sternly.

The lady cop bristled visibly at that.

"You don't rank me, mister. I don't know why I'm spilling my guts to you anyway, when I don't even know your interest in all this."

"I told you, I'm interested in justice," Bolan said. "And if your theory proves out, there's more to all this than a sex freak on the prowl. I'll need a copy of that suspect sketch, and any pertinent data from your canvass."

The lady cop stiffened.

"You ask a lot, La Mancha. You won't get me to hurt the department."

"I haven't asked you to. But if there is a cover-up, then those responsible are spoiling every decent thing a lawman stands for. You owe them nothing."

There was another long pause. "I'll have to think this over," she said.

Bolan nodded.

"You know the numbers," he said softly. "Our man missed with Toni, so he's still hungry. How long have we got?"

"Give me time to think, dammit!" she snapped. There was more worry than anger in her voice.

Bolan wrote a telephone number, Pol's answering service, on a card and then rose to leave.

"You can reach me through this number when you make up your mind. And you might watch your step today."

"Bet on it," she told him, smiling again. "And thanks... for happening by. You know, I should report what happened."

"I recommend you don't for now," said Bolan. "See if anybody acts surprised. I'll direct Lieutenant Fawcett to your visitors when I see him."

And with that he left her, passing back into the early-morning darkness that was already tinged with fault traces of gray on the eastern horizon. He had spent more time with the lady cop than he had planned — but he felt that the time had been well spent.

Even so, he had damned little to work with and, possibly, even less time to seek his handle on the situation. If Fran Traynor's theory proved out... and if there was a smoke-screen being laid downtown...

Too damned many if's, yeah.

Still, he could project areas of caution and concern, even with the small amount of solid data available.