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

Macauley went to the park, guided there by some inexorable automatic pilot inside him. As he drove, he heard himself saying inside his head, “You killed those four girls, killed them because they were prostitutes and wouldn’t quit. I know you argued with Jennifer Warren and Linda Metcalf. I think you did with the others, too.

“Your motives were good; you just wanted to save them from themselves. I pulled your file, saw the arrests starting when you were fifteen, saw the drug charges. I remember you saying that death was better than living like that. I saw you play tennis, I remember the muscles of your body and that fact that you’re a very strong woman. You could have done it easily.

“I can’t prove it. I just want to help you, Joanne. I want you to help me help you.”

When he brought the car to a halt in front on the park entrance, Joanne asked, “Why have you brought me here, Will?”

He opened his mouth to tell her what he had explained earlier to himself.

A car door slamming made him look around. Across the street, a taxi had just let a passenger out, and the man went up to the apartment building doors and pressed the button. A minute went by and the doorman did not appear, so with a shrug the man gave a tentative push to one of the doors and, when it swung open, went on in.

Macauley wondered where the doorman could be and why the doors were unlocked. The doorman must have gone out somewhere and left them open.

Then, suddenly, Macauley knew where.

The snow began to fall thicker and heavier. Macauley stared at the flakes and cursed himself again, this time for his stupidity, and then thanked God for the slamming of that taxi door.

Joanne was looking at him, puzzled by his silence. She asked, “Will, what’s the matter?”

He turned to her sharply, breaking out of his reverie, said, “Listen, I want you to go across the street into that building and find a phone. Call the police and get them here on the double. Then you stay inside there.”

Before she could reply, he leaned over and kissed her quickly on the lips. Then he had the door open and was out of the car, moving at a quick trot through the snow, into the darkness of the park.

The normally noisy city had become quieter as the snow increased. It was an eerie feeling, moving along in silence and darkness. Macauley reached inside his overcoat and found his revolver, but its cold presence in his hand made him feel no better.

His feet kicked up the thin film of snow at every step. He hoped he wouldn’t be top late. It was not a large park, but it was big enough so that it would take him a while to cover all of it.

A sudden scream told him he wasn’t too late not yet, anyway. The moisture-laden air muffled the sound, made its location difficult to determine. Macauley veered in what he hoped was the right direction.

He found himself going up a slight rise. When he topped it, he found himself looking down into a small bowl in the earth. At the bottom, he could make out a dark, writhing shape against the lightness of the snow. He fired a shot into the air.

Part of the shape detached itself with a strangled cry and broke away at a run, vanishing into the snow and darkness. Macauley pounded down the hill and knelt by the girl who lay sprawled on the cold ground.

She was breathing raggedly but deeply, and Macauley thought she would probably be all right. He took his overcoat off and wrapped it around her, knowing that she could be in shock and that she had to be kept warm.

He had just gotten to his feet, holding the girl up in his strong arms, when a great weight slammed into his back. He fell, dropping the girl, and a foot crashed against his ribs.

A twisted voice screamed, “She’s mine! If I can’t have her, no one can!”

Macauley rolled over onto his back and grabbed the foot as it came at him again. He twisted and heaved, and his attacker went over backwards. Macauley rolled away and struggled to his feet. He was surprised to find his gun still in his hand.

The man came to his feet and crouched, ready to spring again. As he began his lunge, Macauley brought his arm up deliberately and squeezed the trigger gently, just as he did on the police firing range once a month.

The force of the bullet brought the attacker up short, and he staggered backwards with a howl. He flopped down on the snow, rolling and whimpering in pain. Macauley kept the gun lined up on him. His heart was pounding faster than it had in years.

Sirens were screaming somewhere in the snowy night.

Much later, in the early hours of the next morning, Macauley and Joanne Everett and several other people listened as the night doorman said, “Miss Warren liked me, I know she did. I saw her going with men all the time, and sometimes they came in with her.

“She was nice to me, but she didn’t want to go with me the way she did with them. I have a great deal of time to think at night, and when I thought too much about her, I got angry, very angry.