Thomas Cook - Blood Innocents

“Piccolini thinks there is, right?”

“Yeah.” He looked down again into the face of the body crumpled at his feet. “Sometimes enough is enough,” he whispered.

“Huh?”

Somehow, Reardon thought, if the eyes had been closed, like those of Lee McDonald, he could have borne the rest with greater ease. But the eyes of Karen Ortovsky had burned into him like naked light bulbs in a solid darkness, screaming for more than conventional justice could offer. Reardon knew immediately that Karen Ortovsky had been the last to die. He knew that she had cowered, tied like a beast, while the murderous tumult went on in the next room. She had heard each slash of the blade tearing into Lee McDonald’s flesh, had heard her roommate’s body pivot and stagger into tables, overturn chairs, flail wildly against each wall and then finally collapse helplessly to the floor, where only the final whimpering exhalations could be heard above the merciless whirring of the blade.

Reardon shuddered and quickly walked out into the other room.

“So now you’re back in homicide,” Reardon heard Mathesson say behind him, but he could not answer. “I knew you would be. I knew it was coming. Just like I said that day at the zoo, about those deer. It’s the same thing. Just like the guy with the cats. A maniac like that will eventually get around to people. It never fails. I’ve never seen it to fail.”

Reardon stood in the middle of the living room, as silent and immobile as an icon. “She seemed so small,” he said.

“Yeah,” Mathesson replied, “that little McDonald girl couldn’t of been more than five feet tall.”

“I meant Karen.” Reardon said. “Her face was so small, like a child’s face.”

“I didn’t notice, to tell you the truth.” Mathesson took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “But I knew it would come to people in the end. It always does. Just like that scumbag with the cats.”

Reardon shook his head. He turned toward the entrance of the apartment. “I’ve got to step out for some fresh air,” he said to Mathesson. “It’s stifling in here.”

He went out and down the stairs and outside into the street. Images came whirling into his mind: Van Allen. The dead fallow deer. Millie. Piccolini. Tim. Finally Karen Ortovsky. He walked a few yards down the street and leaned for support against a parking meter. The meter was cold but he could not let go of it. Over and over his mind kept returning to three phases from his abandoned religion. They seemed to circle in his mind like vultures in a desert sky. They were the last words of excommunication: Ring the bell. Close the book. Quench the candle.

Later in the morning Reardon joined Mathesson in a canvass of the building in which Lee McDonald and Karen Ortovsky had been murdered. It was a five-floor walk-up and the two women had lived on the third floor. It had no doorman. Mathesson took the two floors above the third floor; Reardon took the two below it, beginning on the first floor.

There were two apartments on each landing. Reardon knocked several times at one apartment, but there was no answer. He walked across the hall to the other apartment and knocked on the door there. He waited a moment, then knocked again. After another pause the door opened slightly.

“Yes?” a voice inquired.

Reardon could see half a face peering between the two separate lengths of chain that held the door secure. “My name is Reardon,” he said, “New York City Police. I’d like to talk with you a minute.” He took out his shield and presented it.

“Oh, fine,” the voice said with obvious relief.

Reardon watched as the chains were undone and the door swung open to allow him in.

The man inside was short and very fat. His head was completely bald, but his face was covered with a massive black beard. Still, Reardon thought, it was an expressive face, mobile, the eyes darting about constantly like two blue marbles on a roulette wheel.

The man thrust out his hand. “My name is John Levinson,” he said. He smiled broadly. “Always happy to help the police. Never know when you might need a cop, you know.”

Reardon shook the outstretched hand. “John Reardon,” he said quietly. Such overt friendliness turned Reardon toward a shy, withdrawn self-consciousness.

“Have a seat,” Levinson said, pointing to a wicker chair. “Right there’s fine.”

Reardon sat down. “Thanks.”

Levinson sat down on a small sofa opposite Reardon and folded his arms across his chest. He looked, to Reardon, like one of those big-bellied Buddhas he had seen displayed in Village novelty shops.

“What can I do for you?” Levinson asked.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but we had two murders in this building last night.”

Levinson covered his mouth with his hand. “My God!” he muttered through his fingers. “Who?”

“Two women on the third floor named Lee McDonald and Karen Ortovsky. Did you know them?”

Levinson shook his head. “No. How were they killed?”

“I can’t go into the details,” Reardon replied.

Levinson nodded. “Brutal?”

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“Hm,” Levinson said. “Career girls probably, right?”

“They had jobs,” Reardon said, growing uncomfortable with the style of Levinson’s interest.

Levinson suddenly shot out of his chair and went to a bookcase. His eyes moved across one of the shelves until he found what he was looking for. He took a paperback book from the shelf and looked at the cover. “Five hundred thousand copies sold,” he muttered to himself. Then he returned the book to the shelf and sat back down across from Reardon. “That’s really something,” he said, staring at Reardon. “Two white career girls brutally murdered in an exclusive Village brownstone.” He stroked his beard again. “Yeah, that could be something. There could be a book in there. That could really be something. Did you say they lived on the third floor?”

“Yeah.”

Levinson slapped his thigh. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said enthusiastically. “Now that you mention it. Two girls on the third floor. I used to see them getting their mail out there in the foyer. Yeah, I used to see them. They were both lookers. Good lookers. Probably photographed well.”

“When was the last time you saw them?” Reardon asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Levinson said casually. “Several days ago, I guess.”

“Did you ever see them with anybody else?”

“No. No. I don’t think so.”

Reardon stood up. “I guess that’s it, then.”

Levinson jumped to his feet. “Just a second, Mr. Reardon,” he said, his eyes darting about the apartment. “How about a drink? I got some high-class stuff.”

“No, thanks.” Reardon said, starting toward the door.

Levinson grabbed Reardon’s arm. “Uh, wait a minute. I, uh, I might have a proposition to make to you.”

Reardon stopped and Levinson released Reardon’s arm. “Look,” he said nervously, “I’m a writer. You know? Free-lance. This sounds to me like it could be a real story. A big story. Maybe we could work together on it.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Reardon replied coolly.

“I know, I know, but these things make a good read. There’s a big audience for this sort of thing.”

“I’m a homicide detective,” Reardon said. He could not think of any other reply.

“Yeah,” Levinson said enthusiastically, “that’s great! You got all the dope! You got the inside track! You’ve seen the bodies, that sort of thing! You got access to pictures!”

Reardon could feel the heat rising in his face. “Go fuck yourself,” he said.

Levinson stepped back. “So who are you, Rockefeller?” he snapped.