Slaughter - Lutz John - Страница 29
- Предыдущая
- 29/66
- Следующая
“Why do you ask?” Quinn said.
“We ain’t got a lot of Minnie Miner fans here,” Ozzie said.
“Subject them to her for a little while,” Quinn said, “or I’ll tell everyone your real name.”
Ozzie went “Ummm,” which he always did when he was thinking.
“This about those murdered women and that Gremlin nutcase?” he asked.
“We’re trying to find that out,” Quinn said.
“Okay, then. Long as you let me autograph some baseballs. I can sign them Ossie Snith—keep it legal.”
“Of course, as long as the photos are genuine.”
“Today we’re going to interview a real serial killer,” Minnie Miner was saying on television. “He might be able to shed some light on this subject—if he wants to, of course. We don’t twist arms on this show—that’s how we get so many interesting guests and—hopefully—we learn something.” She glanced at the simple set. Two green easy chairs flanked a small table with a stack of half a dozen books on it. There was a low coffee table in front of the sofa. It could be reached by all the guests. The cordless phone was on the table between the chairs. There was a worn, trashy look to some of the set, though it all came across nicely on TV.
The Minnie Miner ASAP news show was actually mostly a call-in radio show, but plenty of interesting guests had learned of it by first watching it on television. Minnie always had a phone number and e-mail address superimposed on the bottom of the screen. The Gremlin had at first vowed only to talk on the phone, but the lure of TV, of all those eyeballs trained on you, was for many almost irresistible.
Not yet, the Gremlin told himself. When the time came, there would be plenty of cameras aimed at him.
Almost, but not quite yet.
Minnie was standing by the table when the phone made a weird swishing sound, like a sword or large knife splitting the air. She grinned—an attractive black woman with mischievous eyes, a great shape, and a big smile—and raised her forefinger to her pursed lips in a request for silence.
And the audience was silent.
The phone made the weird sound again. She looked at the audience, gave them an even bigger smile, and lifted the receiver with both anxious hands.
Smiling yet wider, the phone pressed to her ear, she nodded over and over, as if trying to shake off her smile.
This was great. This was wonderful! She mouthed the word “Gremlin” several times, her sparkling dark eyes scanning the audience, then spoke into the receiver, as obsequious and happy as if she’d gotten an interview with the Queen of England.
She was talking to a killer.
30
Quinn, watching Minnie Miner ASAP, was amazed by the smattering of applause from the studio audience as Minnie introduced the killer, referring to him simply as “the Gremlin.” That’s what Minnie’s audience was trained to do, so it was automatic even though the applause sign didn’t light up.
Minnie, wearing a mauve pants suit and with her hair slicked back, looked dignified and important. She was seated in her usual armchair she used when interviewing guests. In the matching armchair sat a black cardboard cutout of a man with an oval head and no features.
“First of all,” Minnie said into her handheld microphone, “I’m glad you had the courage to call.”
“Let’s not waste time talking about that.”
“Do you object to me referring to you that way—the Gremlin?”
“If you can hear a shrug on the phone, you just did,” the Gremlin said. His voice was male and strong, not what one might expect from a man described as resembling a destructive elf or leprechaun.
“And why did you want to talk with me, personally, rather than another journalist?”
“I’m interested in reaching your audience through you.”
“And the reason for that?”
“I don’t mind tales being told about me, as long as they’re based at least in part on the truth.”
“Do you think lies have been told?”
“You might call them selective editing. I call them lies.”
“Such as?” Minnie asked. She looked knowingly at the cardboard cutout, then at the audience. They were all going to get a glimpse into the hell that was the killer’s mind. This was journalism at its best.
“That I’m angry, violent, and vicious,” the Gremlin said, “and trying to get back at someone. Or that I’m on some kind of crusade. Or that I’m seriously mentally unbalanced.”
“Are you saying you’re none of those things?”
For several seconds there was only the sound of heavy breathing. Then what might have been a whimper. “I’m wondering how you get into the club they call the human race.”
Minnie looked wonderingly at her studio audience. “Is that what this is about? Are we going to hear about an unhappy childhood? Because that’s what all killers say.” Suddenly Minnie was angry. “Because if that’s it, we—that’s me and my audience and the huge audience out there—aren’t buying any of those bananas.”
“I’m not selling bananas. Or anything else. I’m just looking for the truth. For someone who won’t lie to me.”
“Well. You found her. The language spoken here is the liberating, sometimes uncomfortable truth.”
“It wasn’t my fault those people died.”
“Which people?”
“The women who rejected me. The men who betrayed me.”
“Did you even know those people?”
“I knew all of them, because they’re all the same.”
“Like the people in the fire, and in the elevator?”
“All the same.”
“But why did you kill them?”
“So I might better understand them.”
“Are you saying that’s why you killed all those people in the elevator—so you could better understand them?”
“Not the people. The elevator.” Another pause. “The people, too, though.”
Minnie locked gazes with the audience, made a face, shook her head. “That’s so . . . sick.”
“You shouldn’t say those things about me.”
“I promised I’d tell you the truth.”
“That didn’t mean anything.”
“It most certainly did.”
“How do you make your living?” Minnie asked. “Do you have a job?”
“Of course I do. Robbing from the rich and giving to myself. And I enjoy the agony and acquiescence my profession entails.”
“Robbing the dead. You must know how perverse that is. You need help.”
“You mean someone to hold their finger on the knots while I pull them tight?”
“I can give you some names and phone numbers,” Minnie said.
“I can’t trust you.”
“You can, you can.”
“Are you trying to keep me on the line long enough so the police can trace my call?”
“Of course not.”
“See?”
Quinn heard the click as the killer hung up, then watched Minnie do the same.
Ten minutes later, Renz called. “It was a drugstore throwaway phone,” he told Quinn. “The call originated someplace in midtown west of Broadway. Even if we could find the phone, or what’s left of it after it’s been stomped on, it wouldn’t help us.”
“We can’t be sure of that.”
“Sure we can,” Renz said. “I can tell stories two different ways, then later on I can take my pick. Fall back on the one that’s the best fit. No one remembers what other people say, anyway.”
“Cops do,” Quinn said.
“Not if they don’t remember they’ve forgotten something.”
Quinn said, “I’ll grant you that. And they—we—also overlook things.”
“Not us. Not cops.”
“Even cops.”
“But how would we know?”
“We’d find out,” Quinn said. “Eventually.”
31
Betty Lincoln and Macy Adams looked like Broadway dancers. Both of them, from time to time, had come close. They were wearing tight designer jeans, pullover tops, and flat-soled, comfortable-looking shoes. Not shoes to dance in, but to give their feet a rest. Betty and Macy waited patiently for their shrimp salads and iced tea. Each woman was small, with a tight body, flat abdomen, large muscular buttocks and calves. Betty was blond and had a turned-up nose. Macy had dark hair and a Mediterranean profile. They moved with a kind of grace and power that drew the eye, even when they simply crossed the Liner Diner to the booths beyond the counter.
- Предыдущая
- 29/66
- Следующая
