The real cool killers

Grave Digger folded it again and slipped it into his pocket. "Is your girl called Bee?" he asked Ready. "Naw, suh, she called Doe." "Do you know any girl called Bee — a school girl?" "Naw suh." "GB?" "Naw suh." Grave Digger turned out the pockets of the clothes but found nothing more. He wrapped the bundle and attached the tag. He noticed Ready staring at the number on the tag again. "Don't let that number catch up with you," he said. "Don't you end up with that tag on your fine clothes." Ready licked his dry lips. They didn't see Dr. Banks on their way out. Grave Digger stopped at the reception desk to tell the nurse he hadn't found anything to identify the corpse. "Now we're going to look for the Greek's car," he said to Ready.

They found the big green Cadillac beneath a street lamp in the middle of the block on 130th Street between Lenox and Seventh Avenues. It had an Empire State license number — UG-16 — and it was parked beside a fire hydrant. It was as conspicuous as a fire truck.

He pulled up behind it and parked. "Who covered for him in Harlem?" he asked Ready. "I don't know, Mista Jones." "Was it the precinct captain?" "Mista Jones, I — " "One of our councilmen?" "Honest to God, Mista Jones — " Grave Digger got out and walked toward the big car. The doors were locked. He broke the glass of the left-side wind screen with the butt of his pistol, reached inside past the wheel and unlocked the door. The interior lights came on. A quick search revealed the usual paraphernalia of a motorist: gloves, handkerchiefs, Kleenex, half-used packages of different brands of cigarettes, insurance papers, a woman's plastic overshoes and compact. A felt monkey dangled from the rear view mirror and two medium-sized dolls, a black-faced Topsy and a blonde Little Eva, sat in opposite corners on the back seat. He found the miniature bull whip and a Manila envelope of postcard-sized photos in the right-hand glove compartment. He studied the photos in the light. They were pictures of nude colored girls in various postures, each photo revealing another developed tethnique of the sadist. On most of the pictures the faces of the girls were distinct although distorted by pain and shame. He put the whip in his leather-lined coat pocket, kept the photos in his hand, slammed the door, walked back to his own car and climbed beneath the wheel. "Was he a photographer?" he asked Ready. "Yas suh, sometime he carry a camera." "Did he show you the pictures he took?" "Naw suh, he never said nothing 'bout any pictures. I just seen him with the camera." Grave Digger snapped on the top light and showed Ready the photos. "Do you recognize any of them?" Ready whistled softly and his eyes popped as he turned over one photo after another. "Naw suh, I don't know none of them," he said, handing them back. "Your girl's not one of them?" "Naw suh." Grave Digger pocketed the envelope and mashed the starter. "Ready, don't let me catch you in a lie," he said again, letting out the clutch.

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