No matter what he said, I believed I had my gun on the killer when Marino suddenly appeared in my doorway at the same time his .357 pumped four bullets into the killer’s upper body. I didn’t check for a pulse. I made no effort to stop the bleeding. I just sat in the twisted sheet on the floor, my revolver in my lap, tears streaming down my cheeks as it dawned on me.
The .38 wasn’t loaded.
I was so upset, so distracted when I went upstairs to bed, I’d forgotten to load my gun. The cartridges were still in their box tucked under a stack of sweaters inside one of my dresser drawers where Lucy would never think to look.
He was dead.
He was dead when he hit my rug.
“He didn’t have his mask off either,” Marino was going on. “Memory plays weird tricks, you know? I pulled the damn stocking off his face soon as Snead and Riggy got there. By then he was already dead as dog food.”
He was just a boy.
He was just a pasty-faced boy with kinky dirty-blond hair. His mustache was nothing more than a dirty fuzz.
I would never forget those eyes. They were windows through which I saw no soul. They were empty windows opening onto a darkness, like the ones he climbed through when he murdered women whose voices he’d heard over the phone.
“I thought he said something,” I muttered to Marino. “I thought I heard him say something as he was falling. But I can’t remember.” Hesitantly, I asked, “Did he?”
“Oh, yeah. He said one thing.”
“What?” I shakily retrieved my cigarette from the ashtray.
Marino smiled snidely. “Same last words recorded on them little black boxes of crashed planes. Same last words for a lot of poor bastards. He said, ’Oh, shit.’ ”
One bullet severed his aorta. Another took out his left ventricle. One more went through a lung and lodged in his spine. The fourth one cut through soft tissue, missing every vital organ, and shattered my window.
I didn’t do his autopsy. One of my deputy chiefs from northern Virginia left the report on my desk. I don’t remember calling him in to do it but I must have.
I hadn’t read the papers. I couldn’t stomach it. Yesterday’s headline in the evening edition was enough. I caught a glimpse of it as I hastily stuffed the paper in the garbage seconds after it landed on my front stoop:
STRANGLER SLAIN
BY DETECTIVE
INSIDE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER’S BEDROOM
Beautiful. I asked myself, Who does the public think was inside my bedroom at two o’clock in the morning, the killer or Marino?
Beautiful.
The gunned-down psychopath was a communications officer hired by the city about a year ago. Communications officers in Richmond are civilians, they aren’t really cops. He worked the six-to-midnight shift. His name was Roy McCorkle. Sometimes he worked 911. Sometimes he worked as a dispatcher, which was why Marino recognized the CB voice on the 911 tape I played for him over the phone. Marino didn’t tell me he recognized the voice. But he did.
McCorkle wasn’t on duty Friday night. He called in sick. He hadn’t been to work since Abby’s Thursday morning front-page story. His colleagues didn’t have much of an opinion of him one way or another except they found his CB phone manner and jokes amusing. They used to kid him about his frequent trips to the men’s room, as many as a dozen during a shift. He was washing his hands, his face, his neck. A dispatcher walked in on him once and found McCorkle practically taking a sponge bath.
In the communications men’s room was a dispenser of Borawash soap.
He was an “all-right guy.” No one who worked with him really knew him well. They assumed he had a woman he was seeing after hours, “a good-looking blonde” named “Christie.” There was no Christie. The only women he saw after hours were the ones he butchered. No one who worked with him could believe he was the one, the strangler.
McCorkle, we were considering, may have murdered the three women in the Boston area years ago. He was driving a rig back then. One of his stops was Boston, where he delivered chickens to a packing plant. But we couldn’t be sure. We may never know just how many women he murdered all over the United States. It could be dozens. He probably started out as a peeper, then progressed to a rapist. He had no police record. The most he’d ever gotten was a speeding ticket.
He was only twenty-seven.
According to his résumé on file with the police department, he’d worked a number of jobs: trucker, dispatcher for a cement company in Cleveland, mail deliveryman and as a deliveryman for a florist in Philadelphia.
Marino wasn’t able to find him Friday night but he didn’t look very hard. From eleven-thirty Marino was on my property, out of sight behind shrubbery, watching. He was wearing a dark blue police jumpsuit so he would blend with the night. When he switched on the overhead light inside my bedroom, and I saw him standing there in the jumpsuit, the gun in hand, for a paralyzing second I didn’t know who was the killer and who was the cop.