Urge to Kill

That was about as civil as Thel got. Quinn thanked her, and she ignored him and returned to stand near the coffee urn behind the counter.

Quinn sat for another half hour reading the news, an ear cocked to the softly playing television.

Reading and hearing it made things suddenly come together.

He realized what had been disturbing his sleep. What was still bothering him.

A very large piece of the puzzle was missing.

He got his cell phone from his pocket and started to peck out Zoe’s office number. Then he changed his mind and called Helen the profiler.

Helen, like Quinn, did contract work for the NYPD and had a home office. It was a converted second bedroom of her apartment in the Village, and it had French doors that led out to a small brick courtyard surrounded by foliage, an ancient brick wall, and a high wooden fence that looked ready to collapse from the weight of the vines growing up it. Helen had coffee made, and she and Quinn sat in wrought-iron chairs at the small round metal table in the center of the courtyard. They were in deep shade, and the sounds from the street were curiously muffled yet nearby.

Helen was wearing some kind of kimono, brown leather sandals, and no makeup. Her ginger-colored hair was combed back and held by a tan elastic band. She looked younger than usual, like a lanky athlete who’d just come from a women’s college basketball game.

Quinn sipped his coffee from an old cracked mug lettered THIMK and glanced around. “Nice back here.”

“Private,” Helen said. He knew it was an invitation to talk in confidence.

“I have a feeling you know why I came,” Quinn said.

“Yeah, but you go first.”

“I know we were dealing with dual and possibly conflicting personalities in the same person, but now that we know more about Martin Hawk, I’m having a hard time buying into the notion that he did those women.”

“You think Pearl shot the wrong man?”

“Not exactly.” Quinn reached for words he couldn’t find. “I’m not sure what I think.”

Helen leaned back and crossed her long legs beneath the silk kimono. Her well-pedicured feet looked huge and reminded Quinn what a large woman she was.

She said, “Martin Hawk turned out to be an educated and sophisticated opponent who was obviously upset about the dearth of tradition and sportsmanship in society, depressed over what his life’s love and endeavor had become. You’re thinking that whatever duality he might have contained, it’s unlikely that a man like Hawk, obsessed with fairness and honor, the regimen of the hunt, would simply slaughter unsuspecting helpless victims.”

“You’ve been giving this some thought,” Quinn said.

Helen nodded. “As have you.”

“Have you spoken to Renz?”

Helen smiled sadly. “He wouldn’t want to listen. Wouldn’t believe me if he did listen. There’s a narrative fixed in his mind and in the media. It’s all working for him now, and he wouldn’t want to change it. And I have to say he’d have a point. What about the stuff they found in the bag in Hawk’s hotel room?”

“I don’t know about it. I thought maybe you might explain it.”

“I can’t,” Helen said. “It’s compelling evidence. It would have taken down the suspect in court if Pearl’s bullets had missed.”

“You and I both think there’s something more to this case. The only problem is, we don’t know what.”

“That’s where we stand,” Helen said.

“So what do we do?” Quinn asked.

“I’m not certain we’re correct. But if we are, at this point I’m not in any position to do anything.”

“You could risk your job and professional reputation by backing me up,” Quinn said.

He’d thought Helen would laugh or at least smile, but she didn’t. Instead she said, “Bring me something, and I’ll back you.”

Then she smiled. “If there is something.”

78

Quinn knew that if he went to his apartment or to the office there’d be media types there. The Manhattan paparazzi.

He drove the Lincoln to First Avenue and found a parking space near East Fifty-fifth Street. He got out of the car and fed the meter, then began walking south on the sunny, crowded sidewalk, cloaking himself in the anonymity of the city.

As he walked, he thought about the way the Slicer victims were killed. Displaying the victims was almost like a desecration of the hunt, and the hunt had been Martin Hawk’s quasi-religion. It seemed impossible, at least in Quinn’s mind, that the .25-Caliber Killer and the Slicer were the same man.

Then who was the Slicer?

Alfred Beeker? Could he kill in such a grisly manner? Perhaps. His was a profession that delved into sadistic and tortured souls. Maybe some of what he’d encountered had rubbed off.

Or maybe limiting the suspects to men might be where things had gone wrong. It wasn’t only men who sometimes hated women. Plenty of women still had enough pent-up rage at their mothers or sisters to compel them to kill.