Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“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.”

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.

Rackman puffed his Lucky, sipped coffee, and thought about Kowalchuk, imagining that big fat fucker sitting in his broken-down easy chair, reading pornography and looking at pictures of girls getting screwed. Could such a person get twisted to the point where he’d actually go out and kill a couple of whores?

Rackman thought that he could, because he knew from his own experience that when he was horny, and women rejected him, he’d get angry. It was especially infuriating to know that they were screwing other guys but wouldn’t screw him. But he never got mad enough to become violent. He usually just went to the nearest bar and got drunk. He figured some awkward, unattractive men suffered rejections far more severe than he ever did, and conceivably could be moved to actually hurt women. It was possible that a fat man like Kowalchuk, with a filthy apartment filled with filthy magazines, was that kind of man.

At eight-thirty the doors to the old office building were opened, and people began to stream in. Rackman got out of his car and threw his cigarette butt in the gutter, heading toward the building. He took the elevator up to the eighth floor, where the Taxi Commission door was still locked and he had to wait a while longer. He took out another Lucky and lit up.

After a while a woman around thirty-five with short brown hair and a sprightly manner came down the hall. She looked at him with big childlike eyes, then took a key out of her handbag and inserted it in the lock of the Taxi Commission door.

“Hi,” Rackman said, taking out his shield. “I’ve got to look through your files, okay?”

She smiled in a friendly way. “How long have you been waiting?”

“A few minutes.”

“You look like you’ve been waiting a month.”

“I know.” He followed her into the office.

“Been up all night?” she said over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Working on a big case?”

“Not so big.”

She walked behind the counter and he followed her into three rows of desks. Windows were behind them, and private offices to the sides. The woman spun around and looked at him, a little amused. She wore blue slacks, a blouse, and a sweater.