I didn’t bother to tell her; frankly I didn’t give a damn.
After taking stock of paradise, I walked by the front desk and called out in a less than interested voice to the man who was running the asylum, “How you doing, Sarge?”
His reply never wavered; I’d been hearing the same response for the past ten years. “Hanging in, Mooney, hanging in.”
Based solely on his reassuring salutation, I summoned up my courage and kept on moving across the old tile floor to the stairs. Making my way past Scarlet and up the stairs to the first landing, I turned to the left and climbed the final nine steps to the second floor. A right at the head of the stairs took me down the dingy corridor to the second door on the left. I took another deep breath, turned the knob and entered. People were bustling around; there was a stale smell in the air suggesting a room long sealed. Over to the left of the door was an old gray table that held the five-gallon coffee urn and donuts. Slick Tony Turano and his partner, Max Zaleski, were there, hovering around the table like a couple of vultures. Max, pushing sixty, was the older cop; he had his meaty left hand wrapped around a cup of coffee and a powdered donut stuck in his mouth, freeing his right hand so he could scratch his ass. The powder from his donut had already made it’s way down over his shirt and tie. What a specimen, he should have been the poster boy for Chicago’s finest.
Tony, the younger cop, had his back to me and, since Max was otherwise occupied, I passed them by without benefit of a greeting. I had little use for either one and was confident they shared the sentiment. The tension between Tony and me had been ratcheted up to a new record level over the past month. A senior detective in the department named Delray Spadar was pulling the pin and one of us was in line for a grade hike. The only reason I wanted the promotion was to keep it away from Tony. I had few friends in the room, the price one pays when he’s not on the pad. For the past ten years, the only person that I could truly count on was my boy, Miles Bowman. Miles had been my partner ever since we graduated together from the police academy. Miles didn’t look much like a cop; physically he was a slender man with gentle features, and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a college professor or a librarian. Miles was definitely different from the rest, and not just physically. He had his masters degree and was about half way to earning his doctorate in psychology. Miles had ambitions; he wasn’t about to take his twenty-year pension and then sit back on his ass drinking beer for the rest of life. He had dreams of becoming an independent profiler after he put in his twenty years on the force. No sir, Miles was not your typical cop, not by any means. That’s not to say that he was anything less than a first rate detective. Miles had good instincts, was honest, and he cared. When there was trouble, Miles wasn’t one to hang back; he’d always be there. You never had to look for him, could always be counted on, never flashy but solid. His home life was the same. He lived in a three-bedroom cape, happily married to a really nice gal. Abbe and Miles had two boys, Miles Jr., six years old, was the eldest, and Dylan who was four. I never let on, but I envied Miles; maybe he didn’t know it but he had it all.
I walked over to our desks and found Miles pining over some paperwork. For the past four weeks we’d been putting in a lot of overtime trying to catch a serial killer, the non-caring press had dubbed, ‘The Red Necktie Serial Killer.’ I had no use for sensational headlines but I reconciled myself long ago to the fact that was what sold papers.
“What are you working on Miles?”
“Hey Mooney, nothing much. I’m going over a brochure Abbe gave me on Disney World. I got vacation coming and she’s on my case to spend it down in Orlando.”
“How much vacation time do you have saved up?”
“Three weeks. Think I should drive or fly?”
“Drive. There’s plenty to see on the way down. If I were you, I’d follow the Mississippi River on down to Louisiana. You know, if you’d like, you’re more than welcome to spend some time over at our place on Lake Pontchartrain. It would be a nice break for you. You and the kids could rent a boat, maybe even get a little fishing in. At night, you and Abbe could head over to the French Quarter. You can’t spend that much time at Disney World, you’ll go crazy. You know my mother would love to see you and the family.”
“Do you really think we’d have time to do both?”
“Sure. If you’re that concerned about time, get a cheap round trip to New Orleans and borrow one of Mama’s cars. It would be a nice ride over through the panhandle this time of year. You could stop off at Biloxi and Mobile, shuck a few oysters, check out the local sites. I’m telling you that’s the way to go.”
Before Miles could respond, the hallway door burst open. It was the chief, a no nonsense ram rod of a man named Frank Graymon. Old Frank was on the move as he marched through the office. You could tell by the way he swept past us that he was having a bad day. His face was as red as a beet and perspiration drenched his forehead and neck. Never breaking his pace or glancing our way he barked out, “Miles, Mooney, get your asses in here.”
From past experience I knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant. Chief Graymon was a tough man who demanded nothing less than the best from the people who worked under him. He took his job seriously. Miles and I knew this was no time to dawdle. We jumped up and followed him into his office. He looked up and nodded my way to shut the door which was never a good sign.
“Take a seat. You know where I just came from? The commissioner’s office. We all know how that works. The Mayor calls the commissioner, the commissioner calls me, and then I call you. You want to guess what the topic of conversation was?”
“Miles’ vacation?”
“Mooney, why don’t you go fuck yourself? This is serious. By the way, Miles, while we’re on the subject, you’re not going anywhere until we catch this serial killer. My ass is on the line and you’ve both been around here long enough to know how that works.”
“Chief, what more can we do? What do you want from us? Miles and I have been out there on the street busting our asses since the first killing. You know how many days we’ve taken off in the past three weeks? None!”
“Have you got any leads? Anything I can go upstairs with?”
“Not much. A half-assed description of a guy seen leaving the first crime scene.”
“Do we know for sure he’s the killer?”
“No.”
“Why do we like him?”
“The eye witness knew everybody in the building. She said that he looked out of place.”
“That’s mighty thin. How’d you work it?”
“We brought the lady in and she gave Lou the description. Based on his sketch, we canvassed the buildings. No one recognized him.”
“What’s the description?”
“He was a white male, dressed casually, around thirty years of age. He was slight of build, had brown hair and wore gold wire rimmed glasses.”
“Not much, hell that description could fit you Miles.”
“I’ve got an alibi,” Miles retorted.
“I’m sure you do. How about you? You got anything? You’re supposed to be the next Sigmund Fraud. What kind of a profile have you worked up?”
“White, male, twenty-five to forty years of age. Doesn’t appear that he
