Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“Ooohhhhhh,” she whispered as it filled her up.

Suddenly he froze. “Did you put your diaphragm in?” he asked.

“I put it in before I came over,” she said,

“Good girl,” he replied, beginning to work her.

It was two o’clock in the morning and Rackman lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Francie was cuddled up next to him, fast asleep, and he wondered what to do with her. He didn’t think he was in love with her, but he liked her an awful lot. He certainly enjoyed screwing her once in a while, but after it was over he always felt disgusted with sex and wished he was alone. It wasn’t just Francie—he was like this with other women too. He lusted after them like a horny old billy goat, and then after he had them he was overcome with revulsion.

He’d been wondering about this for a long time, and had come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t feel such revulsion if he liked the women more as people and less as his little sex bunnies. If he could admire and respect them he thought he wouldn’t be so prone to disgust and loathing after lovemaking, but Francie could be an awful pain in the ass, and so had most women he’d ever been mixed up with. He needed a woman he could love more completely, but where was she? That airline stewardess who’d been his second wife was the absolute worst. She was screwing other guys after they’d been married only three months.

The phone rang. He rolled over and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything,” said Inspector Jenkins on the other end. His voice sounded sleepy.

“You’re not disturbing anything. What’s going on?”

Francie had awakened and was trying to bring her ear closer to the receiver. Rackman made room for her so she could listen and know it wasn’t another girl.

“It’s the Slasher again,” Jenkins said. “He killed a girl on West Ninety-fifth Street. Can you meet me at the morgue?”

“Sure thing.”

“You’d better shave if you haven’t recently. The Commissioner will be there and the mayor might even try to get into the act.”

“Is she another massage parlor girl?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m home and I just got the call. I’m assuming that the detectives on the scene will determine that by the time we get downtown.”

Rackman hung up the phone and rolled out of bed, groaning.

“Where are you going?” Francie asked.

“To the morgue.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

He lumbered to the bathroom to get cleaned up, and she followed him, tiptoeing naked over the floor.

“What happened?” she asked, her arms crossed over her breasts.

He began brushing his teeth. “The Slasher killed another girl.”

“My goodness!” She watched him for a few moments. “How come you have to go to the morgue?”

“Because I’m working on the case,” he said through the suds.

“You mean they can’t get along without you?”

“They can get along fine without me, but I ought to be there because I’m working on the case.” He rinsed out his mouth. “In fact, I blew the case wide open yesterday.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I found out who the Slasher is.”

“Who is he?”

“Some crazy cabdriver.”

“Why doesn’t somebody arrest him?”

“Because nobody knows where he is.”

“Oh shit,” she said, annoyed. “This would have to happen on the one night we were going to spend together.”

“Don’t be so sentimental. We can sleep just as well alone.”

“Maybe you can, but I can’t.”

Rackman dried his face and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. Francie took his bathrobe off the bedpost and put it on, then lit a cigarette and sat cross-legged on the bed. Rackman took his gray slacks and blue blazer combination out of the closet.

“You have to get all dressed up to go to the morgue?” Francie asked.

“Shut up, will you?” he said, pulling on the pants. “I’m trying to think.”

He saw the hurt on her face and regretted telling her to shut up. Women can drive you crazy. “I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“I’m used to remarks like that from you,” she replied.

They make you mad, then make you feel guilty for getting mad. Rackman took a fresh shirt out of the drawer and put it on.

“I really shouldn’t see you anymore,” she said.

“I don’t know what to tell you Francie.”

“You really don’t give me very much.”

“Maybe I don’t have very much to give.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

Rackman tied his necktie and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a nice clean-cut detective, the kind the Commissioner liked.

“I guess you’ll stay here,” he said to her reflection in the mirror.

“Do you mind?”

“No. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator.” He put on his blue blazer and put a fresh pack of Luckies in the inner pocket. “Well, I’m sorry that I’ve got to go, but I’ve got to go.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “I’ll call you.”

“’Bye Danny,” she said.

She was a black girl in her mid-twenties and she lay very still on the slab in the morgue, her eyes closed. Her windpipe was sliced in two and another big cut was on the side of her neck. She had a nice figure, somewhat on the heavy side, and had bruises on her face.

Rackman looked at her and felt helpless because the Slasher still was on the loose and probably would kill another woman before they caught him. He might even kill a few more. In the Forties, a killer in Buffalo had decapitated twenty-two victims and hadn’t been caught.

Rackman stood between Jenkins and Johnny Olivero. On the other side of the slab was Police Commissioner Hurley, who had a pointed nose and wavy black hair, and First Deputy Harnick, who wore a vested suit that made him look like a banker. The medical examiner had told them that the victim had been cut first from the side, and then from the front. She’d been dragged from the sidewalk down the stairs beside a brownstone to the basement entrance. The Slasher had kicked and punched her, and also urinated on her. She’d been found by a musician returning home from a gig.

So far they knew her name was Barbara Collins and that she lived with another girl in an apartment farther down the block. She worked as a performer in a live sex show establishment near Times Square and had given three performances that night. The Slasher had left his fingerprints on her pocketbook. The fingerprints matched those of Frank Kowalchuk’s on his hack license application.

Commissioner Hurley looked at Jenkins. “I want you to put everybody you’ve got on this case.”

“Yes sir,” replied Jenkins.

“The Chief of Detectives is on his way here now. I’m putting him directly in charge, and hereafter it will be the first priority of this department. This thing is going to be all over the papers tomorrow, and the people of New York will want results. We’ve got to get this guy, and that’s all there is to it.”

“We know who he is,” Jenkins said. “It’s just a matter of time before we track him down.”

“It’d better not be too much time,” Commissioner Hurley said.

“We’ll do our best, sir.”

“You’d better.”

Commissioner Hurley looked at the first deputy, and both of them walked out of the room. Jenkins, Rackman, and Olivero relaxed, shuffling their feet and putting their hands in their pockets.

“This is going to be a big thing in the press tomorrow,” Jenkins said grimly. “The shit will really hit the fan. One murder like this is an isolated incident, two are a problem, but three are a fucking epidemic.”