Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

I gave way to them, stepping into the street, ignoring the sneering hiss one threw in my direction. When I was their age, I wouldn't have stepped aside. I was stupid then, and I paid what stupid people pay.

The sidewalk was clogged, but I wasn't in a hurry. I stopped at a bakery, bought myself a French bread, scooped out the inside and dropped it in an overflowing garbage can, and munched on the crust as I moved along.

On the next corner, a dressed–for–success woman was telling a tall man— her husband? boyfriend?— some miserable story.…I could see it in her stance.

"You know, you kind of expect this over in the East Village," she said, pointing a finger at a decrepit gray–haired man huddled in a doorway, his pants down around his ankles, calmly dumping a load as people stepped out into the street to avoid him.

"I know," the tall man commiserated. "Just the other— "

"I hate them," the woman interrupted. "The fucking homeless . I can't help it. I really hate them for what they've done to this city. You can't even use an ATM machine in peace anymore— they're always there, standing around with their hands out, like a pack of filthy doormen."

The dangerous ones, you won't see their hands, I thought to myself. I never considered sharing my professional knowledge with the woman— New York isn't that kind of place.

Once I crossed Houston into Little Italy, it got quieter. I wondered how long that would hold— in this city, there's no border invaders won't cross.

I found the place easy enough. The sign on the door said: RING BELL AND STEP BACK! I knew what that meant, so I wasn't surprised when I saw a second–floor window open and Belinda lean out. "Catch!" she said, tossing down a thick wooden stick with a key attached by a loop of wire.

I used the key to let myself in, then climbed a set of metal stairs to the second floor. Belinda was standing in an open doorway, wearing a baggy T–shirt that fell to mid–thigh. Her hair was lighter than I remembered, reddish highlights dancing in the reflected sunbeams from the window. As I stepped past her to walk inside, she put her lips against my cheek, a butterfly kiss so soft I couldn't be sure it had landed at all.

The place was furnished totally in Now and Today— which, from looking around, I guessed meant Retro. The joint was loaded with reproductions of old junk— a red–and–white Coke machine reprogrammed for diet soda, a Wurlitzer jukebox that spins CDs instead of 45s, and a painting that gave me a headache. I walked over, took a closer look. It was about twice the size of an eight–by–ten, done on white Crescent board. Supposed to be the Seven Dwarfs, near as I could tell, slapped on in a crude, amateur style, all in primary colors, right out of the tube. In the lower right hand corner: POGO in small block letters. I looked over at Belinda.

"An original," she said. "Before they made him stop signing that way."

I nodded, keeping my face expressionless— it wasn't the first time I'd seen Serial Killer Chic proudly displayed by moral midgets. The thrill–killers themselves have a rigid pecking order: if you want to qualify for celebrity status, if you want freakish disciples memorizing your trial transcripts like they were religious tracts, if you want erotic mail and money orders too, it's not enough to have slaughtered a bunch of people, there's other qualifications you have to meet. First, it really helps to have three names, like Westley Alan Dowd or Henry Lee Lucas. Then you need a high body–count— preferably in several states, so you can have serial trials to go with your serial killings. If you can lead the cops to some buried bodies, that's always good for a few more fans. But the most important thing is what John Wayne Gacy lacked— the secret ingredient that rocketed Ted Bundy to high–status serial killer even without a middle name. If you want to be at the top, you've got to kill females, the younger the better. Holding victims captive is a plus. So is torture. But it's all for nothing if you don't do it to females— male–victim snuff films always do lousy box office.

Belinda spread her arms wide, like a rancher showing how much land he had. "This is a perfect place," she said. "All the other lofts are empty— the owner bought them out. He wants to convert the place to condos. This is the last one."

"Very nice," I said, still thinking about the Gacy painting.

She walked over and perched on a big white plastic cube— it must have been stronger than it looked. The only other seat was a leather director's chair, with "Jon" written in embroidered script across the back panel. I took it, settled in, waited.

Belinda leaned forward. "Did you…find out anything? I know it's early, but…"

"Yeah," I told her. "I found out some stuff. DNA."

"That isn't foolproof," she said so quickly that she must have known. "They only got that in Jersey, right? And the woman on University Place, George knew her, I told you. Before it happened, I mean. And there was no sperm in her anyway, remember? Just that red ribbon…"

"So he just caught a bad break, right?" I asked. "He had legit sex with her, then some maniac came along and wasted her before she got a chance to leave the apartment?"

"It's not the weirdest thing I've ever seen," she said. "One time, when I was working Vice, I— "

"Yeah. Okay, I got it— people are strange, sure. But here's the part that throws me— the woman on University Place, the other two victims, none of them had any sperm in them at all. How does that play with you?"

Belinda got up, started pacing in little circles. I noticed she was barefoot, her feet were tiny, too small for the rest of her. I watched her pace, not saying anything more. She walked over to me. Stopped and made a "come here" gesture. I got up. She put her finger to her lips, held out her hand. I took it, and she gently pulled me along a hall to a back room. A bedroom, it looked like, but only because there was a bed— the rest was all file cabinets and photography equipment.

"This isn't my place," she whispered into my ear. "But Jon lets me use it sometimes, when he's out on assignment. He's a video freak— I think he has the living room wired. There's something I have to tell you, but it's just for you, okay?"

I nodded Okay back, not saying anything.

"You want me to strip?" she asked. "So you can be sure there's no— "

"You're the only one talking," I reminded her.

"You sure you wouldn't want me to anyway?" she asked softly, more promise in her voice than in her eyes.

"Some other time," I said. "When I'm not working."

And when you're not either, bitch, I thought.

"It's a date," she whispered.

I stepped past her, sat on the bed— there was no other place to sit in the little room. Belinda started her pacing again. Then she stopped, moved very close to me, bent down and whispered, "You don't have to talk. Just nod for Yes or No, okay?"

I nodded Yes.

"You looked at the autopsy reports, didn't you?"

I nodded Yes.

"And you saw…there was no sperm in any of the bodies, right? Not the one George went down for, not the ones that got killed after he was inside?"

I nodded Yes.

"So what does that tell you?"

I shrugged my shoulders, spread my hands wide in a "Who knows?" gesture.

"The killer…the real killer, I think he read the autopsy reports too. On the woman, the one George knew. I think he…the killer…figured it out. If he left any sperm inside the others, they'd know it wasn't George— the DNA would clear him. The way I figure it, he wore a condom."

I made a "So what?" gesture.

"I think the killer is crazy," she said. "Stark raving mad. And I think he killed those women, stuffed the red ribbons inside them…and then pulled them out of the dead bodies himself…later."