Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

I knew them. Some of them, anyway. If the prison administration doped it out the same way Kamau was telling me, they'd keep–lock Piersall until he was discharged.

"You got anything else?" I asked him.

"He don't mix much. Kind of standoffish. He don't play an attitude, but he don't back down either. He's short, anyway, from what I hear."

"Short here," I told him. "A full–book detainer's waiting on him, though."

"Oh. He don't act much like that. Walks soft— like he don't want to blow his go–home."

"Okay. You sure he wasn't messing with the RB?"

"Dead sure. That happens, they leave word all over the blocks…so when they take him out it's a message. Wasn't nothing like that this time. He was just strolling the block when they jumped him."

"He's got money on the books," I said. "Can't you still buy— ?"

"Not from the RB," he said. "There ain't enough money in here to bodyguard a man on their hit parade. There's no win— they'd never forget. Your man's gotta stay in lock–down until his hearing. If the RB's got a contract out on him, he can't walk the yard anyway. I don't like his chances, even in PC. You know how that works."

I did. "Protective Custody" is a joke— a little plastic squeeze–bottle full of cleaning fluid, a match…and nobody hears the screams. He still had to eat, too. And they let them out an hour a day for exercise. All of them at once.

"Thanks," I said. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Tell the Prof I send my respects," the black man said.

Back outside, in the waiting room, I left a hundred dollars on the books for Dragon. The guard gave me a look. I gave him one back— anything else would have made him suspicious.

In another few minutes, Hauser ambled out. He spotted me, sat down on the bench.

"I think— "

"How'd you get Press plates on that truck?" I interrupted, not wanting him to do any talking there. "I thought they never gave them out to freelancers."

"I'm a reporter, just like anyone else," Hauser replied, his jaw set. "That stuff is blatant discrimination. Took me a few appeals, but they finally gave it up."

"Right on," I said.

He searched my face for sarcasm, didn't find any. Said "Yeah!" under his breath, still pumped from the memory of that battle.

It was another half–hour or so before Belinda came out, her face tight and determined. I caught her eye. She came over to us. We all walked out together.

Everyone was silent with their own thoughts until we got back on the Turnpike. Belinda took off her seat belt, shifted her body so she was facing sideways. "Did you understand what George was saying?" she asked, directing the question at Hauser, turning just enough so she was including me in the answer.

"About what?" Hauser replied.

"About serial killers. Like George said, the one thing you have plenty of time to do in there is read."

"I've read that stuff too," Hauser said. "It sounds like a motley collection of guesswork."

"But what about the part…where he said the killer would have to keep doing it?"

"Even if that is right, how's that going to help?" Hauser asked her. "According to you, the police already know there's a maniac out there. And they haven't charged Piersall with any of the crimes."

"That's just the point," she said. "They know if they charged him they'd look stupid. What better alibi could a man have than to be in prison when it happened?"

"And it's not a copycat either," Hauser said. "There was nothing in the papers about that 'signature' thing. Nothing ."

"But you know about it," Belinda said. "And once you print it, the pressure's gonna be on."

"I don't know about it," Hauser said. "Don't get me wrong— I'm not saying it wasn't like that. But I can't print a rumor— that's for guys with their own columns. Or the ones who take pipe jobs from friendly cops. I'm going to poke around on my own, see if I can find someone to corroborate your information."

"But you're gonna stay on it…?"

"To the end," Hauser promised.

"What about you?" Belinda asked, looking right at me. "Till the end of the week," I said. "Like we agreed."

Belinda wanted to be dropped off at the courthouse on Centre. We did that, then headed uptown.

"Something's real wrong," Hauser said suddenly.

"Pull over somewhere," I told him, seeing how tense he was, not wanting to wait to hear it.

Hauser found a spot just past Canal. He docked the four–by in one sweet smooth sweep. Parallel parking in a rig like that was no easy feat— I guess he could drive good enough when he wasn't talking.

I hit my window switch, lit a smoke. "Go," I said.

"I think she's involved with him," Hauser said. "I think it's personal."

"Because…?"

"Just little things, at first. The way she looked at him, certain things they said….like it was a coded language. And she wanted some time alone, at the end."

"So?"

"So I hung around. They went into the Conference Room— the one she was telling us about, for lawyers."

"And…?"

"And I got to talking with one of the guards. About this profile of corrections officers I'm planning to do for People magazine."

"That's a nice assignment," I said.

"Yeah." Hauser smiled. "Wish I had it. Anyway, I got a nice look inside that Conference Room. There was only the two of them in there…and they were going at it pretty hot and heavy"

"Hot and heavy— that means different things to different folks. Maybe they were just kissing goodbye."

"They were kissing all right," Hauser said. "And her hand was inside his pants. Somebody paid the guard….At least that's the way it looked. The one who let me take a look— he knew what I was going to see."

"There's a couple of ways that scans," I told him. "Maybe she started out working, then got herself all excited. Serial killers turn some women's cranks. Most of those freaks get more fan mail than rock stars. Ted Bundy, he got married on Death Row. Even that slime, the one who tortured kids to death out in Washington State, he had some women all worked up. You see it all the time— prison bars make some people hot. Cops fall for a suspect, guards risk their jobs for a prisoner. It happens."

"And the other way is…?" Hauser asked.

"That she knew him before, on the quiet."

"Either way— "

"Yeah," I interrupted. "Either way, she could be the one."

"Doing the… killings ?"

"It wouldn't be a first," I told him. "Remember that guy Bianchi? He was half of a team— the Hillside Strangler, right? Wasn't there some crazy woman who tried a copycat murder to spring him?"

"Jesus."

"Yeah. Jesus. Me, I don't know. But it adds up, right? What do you think?"

"I think it's still a great story," Hauser said, his mouth set in a grim flat line.

"There's another player in the game," I told him. "When you get time, look through this." I handed him the copy of Morales' psych report.

He scanned it quickly. "This is…?"

"The cop who's been dogging my steps ever since I got on this one."

"You think…?"

"Read it for yourself," I told him, opening the door to get out.

When I called in late that afternoon, Mama told me Fortunato was looking for me. I didn't bother with telephones— it was easier to go over there. I grabbed the subway at Canal. My legendary luck held— a derelict was planted in one corner of the car I boarded, doing a great imitation of a time–release stench bomb. Every time he shifted position, a new wave of sickening odors wafted over everybody else. Everybody changed cars at the next stop, preferring the cattle–car crowding to the alternative. I went them one better— I changed trains.

Waiting for the F train at the West Fourth Street station is a group activity around rush hour. I drifted down toward the end of the platform, figuring I'd get a newspaper. The newsstand had a vast collection of porno magazines on display behind some yellowing Plexiglas. I looked them over, thinking that maybe Vyra was right. The magazines weren't about women at all, they were about body parts— Juggs , Big Butt , Gash — reminded me of those charts of cows they have in butcher shops, the ones with dotted lines separating brisket from tenderloin.