Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“Lots of them, all different.”

Jenkins looked down at the bloody body. “Didn’t anybody hear her holler for help?”

“Nobody heard anything,” Rackman replied. “Evidently the killer cut her down before she knew what was happening.”

Jenkins looked at the detectives around him. “Dancy, you take those bar people downtown and get a composite drawing made up of the killer. Rackman, find out where this victim lived and determine whether or not she knew Cynthia Doyle. Peterson, go see Cynthia Doyle’s boyfriend and find out whether he ever heard of this Rene LeDoux.”

The detectives dispersed on their various missions. Rackman went with Dancy to speak with Pancaldo once more. Rackman asked Pancaldo where the girls kept their street clothes and belongings, and Pancaldo led him to a small office in back of the cubicles. It had a wooden desk covered with small pieces of paper and some old metal lockers leaning against a wall. Rene LeDoux’s locker had a padlock on it, and Rackman opened it with one of his picks. Pancaldo left with Detective Dancy, and Rackman removed Rene LeDoux’s clothes and purse. He sat at the desk and emptied the contents of the purse onto it. The only identification was a Quebec driver’s license that listed her occupation as an entertainer. There were fifty-five dollars in her wallet, and her clothes were chintzy. She couldn’t have been a very successful hooker.

On his way out of the Lounge, Rackman paused to watch Inspector Jenkins give a news conference to an assembly of reporters and television cameramen in front of the bar.

“Do you believe that the same killer is responsible for the murders of Cynthia Doyle and Rene LeDoux?” an attractive lady reporter asked.

“At this time I have no reason to believe that both murders are linked together,” Jenkins replied.

“But they were killed in an identical manner.”

“That doesn’t mean they were killed by the identical person.”

A male reporter with the face of a matinee idol nearly jabbed his microphone through Jenkins’ teeth. “Can you tell us what progress you’ve made so far, Inspector Jenkins?”

Jenkins smiled as he pushed the microphone back a few inches. “We are proceeding with a thorough investigation. However I’m not at liberty to reveal any details at this time.”

“Do you have a suspect yet, sir?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that at this time.”

The sidewalk was crammed with onlookers held back by a small army of patrolmen. There was a massive traffic jam on Eighth Avenue that extended downtown for fifteen blocks, and two patrolmen were trying to move the cars through an open lane on the west side of the street. Rackman elbowed through the crowd to his car, got in, managed to turn it around, and drove uptown to the Albemarle Hotel on Fifty-first Street between Eighth Avenue and Broadway.

It was a seedy old building occupied by people on welfare, hookers, and lowlifes. The rusty fire escape hanging from its facade looked like it might fall to the street at any moment. Rackman entered the lobby, where denizens of the hotel sat on collapsing furniture around a black and white television set. A black man in his mid-twenties was behind the check-in desk. Rackman showed him his shield. “What room does Rene LeDoux live in?”

“Who?”

“Rene LeDoux.”

The black man shrugged. “Never heard of her.”

“Don’t you keep a record of who lives here?”

“Uh huh.”

“Check it.”

The black man reached under the counter and took out a big blue notebook stenciled with Register across the front in black ink. He leafed through the notebook while Rackman took out a Lucky and lit up.

“I don’t see no Rene LeDoux,” the black man said.

“She’s living with a guy, and maybe the room’s under his name. They’re both French Canadians.”

“Oh, you mean the Canucks.” The black man found the appropriate page. “Here they are, Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Fournier. Room 1006.”

“Do you know if Mr. Fournier is in?”

“No I don’t.”

“I’m going up to see him. You’d better not tip him off that I’m on the way.”

Rackman rode the shaky elevator to the tenth floor and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. Taking out his picks, he tripped the latch and entered a small shabby room with an unmade double bed in its center. It smelled of perfume and cologne; clothing was strewn everywhere. The framed photograph of a teenage girl was on the dresser. He looked in the closet and found men’s suits and sports jackets on the hangers along with women’s clothing. It didn’t appear that Pierre Fournier had flown the coop.

Rackman returned to the lobby and approached the room clerk. “Fournier isn’t there. By the way, what’s your name?”

The room clerk took a step back. “I ain’t done anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say you did. What’s your name?”

“Percy.”

“Percy what?”

“Percy Green. Folks call me Greeny.”

“Do you have any idea where Pierre Fournier might be right now?”

“Try the First Base Cafe down the street. If he’s not there, I don’t know where he is.”

Rackman left the hotel and spotted the sign of the Cafe on the other side of the street. It was the ground floor of another broken-down hotel called the Prince Albert. He crossed over and entered. The bar was to the right and tables were in back. The jukebox played funky rhythm and blues, and the air stank of beer, whiskey, and tobacco smoke. He looked down the bar and saw black and white people dressed in cheap, flashy clothes. Near the cash register sat a guy with wavy salt and pepper hair, a mustache, and a square-shouldered suit. Rackman walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around.

“Are you Pierre Fournier?” Rackman asked.

“Who wants to know?” the man asked in a French accent.

Rackman took out his shield. “I’m Detective Rackman from the New York Police Department.”

The man squinted at the shield, then looked at Rackman. “Yes, I’m Pierre Fournier. What is the problem?”

“Why don’t we go back and sit at one of those tables.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No.”

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

“That’s what I’ll tell you about when we get back there.”

Fournier looked worried as he walked beside Rackman toward the rear of the bar. They sat in the dark corner beside the cigarette machine. Fournier took a sip of the wine that he’d carried back. Rackman took a deep drag from his cigarette.

“You live with a woman named Rene LeDoux—isn’t that right?” Rackman asked.

“Yes.”

“Is she your legal wife?”

“Yes.”

Rackman flicked an imaginary ash off his cigarette. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Fournier. Rene LeDoux was murdered about an hour ago at the Polka Dot Lounge.”

Fournier stared at him in disbelief. At a nearby table, two black dudes talked about the fifth race at Belmont Park.

“Murdered?” Fournier asked, bewildered and unsteady.

“I’m afraid so. We’ll want you to come to the medical examiner’s office to identify the body.”

“I… ah…”

“That’s all right, Mr. Fournier. You don’t have to say anything.”

Fournier wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His world was disintegrating and he didn’t know where he was. Rackman had been through this many times. He’d seen people fall down and cry, he’d seen them get angry and try to punch him, and he’d seen them become instant vegetables unable to respond to questions. He disliked the last category most of all.

Fournier took out a Gauloise cigarette and Rackman lit it for him. Fournier looked into Rackman’s eyes as if his pain could be absorbed and ameliorated by them.