Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

He started to answer, but she overrode him in forceful tones. “It’s a waste of your body, a waste of your emotions, a waste of your soul. You lose all sense of dignity and pride. You become a thing instead of a human being. There’s nothing worse.”

“Not even death?”

“Not even death.”

He sat quietly for the space of several heartbeats, musing over what she had said. Then he commented, “I suppose you get to know a lot about hookers, working with them all the time.”

The smile that pulled at her mouth was mocking and sad at the same time. “I know so much about hookers, Lieutenant, because I used to be one.”

Joanne Everett produced no more information. Macauley thanked her for her cooperation, then went back to his office.

He had sandwiches sent in for lunch, spent the rest of the afternoon going over the files on the murdered girls and completing the paperwork on several other cases he was handling. The faces of Elizabeth Murray, her mother and Joanne Everett kept slipping out from the back of his mind.

Late in the afternoon, he spread out on his desk the photos that had been taken at the scene. They told him nothing more than he had seen before, and all he saw was a pretty young girl who had run out of luck.

The apartment building rose like a glass monolith across the street from the park. It was brightly lit, but the glow from it was swallowed up quickly by the darkness. It was nine o’clock, and Macauley would have bet there would be snow by morning.

Double glass doors led into the foyer of the building. Macauley put a big hand on one of them and pushed, but it didn’t give any. Neither did the other one. He rapped on them, ignoring the buzzer next to the door.

A big man hustled out of a glass-walled cubicle just to the left of the doors. Macauley saw that he wore a military-style cap and a long greatcoat with braid on the shoulders. Macauley recognized him as an old-fashioned doorman.

He pressed a button and said, “Yes?” His voice was slightly distorted by the speaker built into the wall.

Macauley held up his ID where the doorman could see it. When he saw that Macauley was a policeman, he stabbed another button and swung the doors open.

“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?”

Macauley looked around the starkly modern foyer. “Yeah, were you on duty here last night?”

“Yes, sir, I’m the regular night man.”

“Pretty security-conscious here, aren’t they?”

“You know how things are in the city, sir. We keep the doors locked at night.”

“And you let people in and out?”

“That’s right. I have to punch the buzzer to release the door.”

“Did anybody leave or come in last night between, say, eleven and eleven forty-five?”

The doorman thought for a minute before answering. “No, sir, I don’t believe so. I think all of the tenants were in before then. It was awfully cold, you know.”

“Everybody in tonight, too?” Macauley asked.

“Yes, sir. They say it may snow tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“This is about the deaths in the park, isn’t it, sir?”

“Maybe. I don’t suppose you saw anything, did you?”

The doorman indicated his cubicle with a wave of his hand. “I’m afraid not. I stay in the office most of the time, and as you can see, the angle is such that I can’t see the entrance to the park.”

Macauley nodded his agreement. “Do you remember Jennifer Warren?”

“Of course. She had lived here for six months when she was killed.”

“Did you know her well?”

“I knew her only slightly, sir. She often came in very late, and she usually spoke to me. That was the extent of our acquaintance.”

“Do you know what she did for a living?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

Macauley turned and looked out the doors. “If you think about it, step out here every now and then and take a glance across the way.”

“I’ll be glad to. I’ll certainly call the police immediately if I see anything suspicious.”

Macauley grunted and pushed on out the doors.

When Macauley got up the next morning, he went to the window and looked out, expecting to see the city blanketed in white. Instead, the cold grey sky was still just a threat. He wished it would go ahead and get it over with.

Carlisle was waiting for him when he got to the precinct house. The young detective was holding a sheet of paper in his hand. Macauley settled down behind his desk and took the paper from Carlisle.

It was headed Employment Histories and had a paragraph for each of the slain girls. Jennifer Warren was listed as a model and actress. Linda Metcalf had been unemployed, as had Elizabeth Murray. Wanda Ansley had worked in the Public Library.

Macauley looked up at Carlisle and said, “Okay, what do you think?”

“Murray and Metcalf lived with their parents, had no jobs and no prospects. Ansley had a cheap room and was still having trouble making ends meet. Jennifer Warren called herself a model and actress, but she listed only two TV commercials for a local station last year. Yet she lived in that fancy apartment house.”