Chapter 12

"They're sitting ducks, Lieutenant. Every pretty girl in that class. All waiting for the murderer to strangle them while the police do a Keystone Comedy chase, and I still wonder why the students don't know each other better."

"Do me a favor, Larry, and shut up," Lieutenant Bishop said. He looked morosely at Al Trask in Cantor's Delicatessen.

"Suit yourself," the reporter said, getting up from the booth. "Unless you give me something else, that's my angle. They're sitting ducks."

"Aw, cut it, Larry," the Irish detective begged. "It's bad enough the D.A.'s after him and his wife's sore. Do you have to sandbag him, too? Lay off, for Pete's sake."

The tall, slim newspaperman shook his head sadly. "I'm a reporter, Trask. I have nothing against the lieutenant. But I'm supposed to be covering this damned case. They've had two murders and two near rapes in one week. But every time I come up for an angle, he turns his back. Look, pal, I've got to make a living, too."

"Print what you want, damn you, but get off my back," Bishop said angrily. "You keep asking me where we'll look for Sanderson next. Well, I'm not going to tell you."

"Larry," Al Trask said, warningly, "lay off."

Mike Bishop turned his bloodshot eyes up to the reporter's. He was bone-tired from following false leads on the killer and the dressing down he had just received in the chief detective's office. He was in no mood for sneers from Larry Davis. "I think you'd better go, Davis," he said softly.

Davis changed his tone to a more placating one. "Look, Mike."

"Don't call me Mike."

"Lieutenant. I'm sorry if I've rubbed you the wrong way. I know you've had a hard time. But this is news. Just answer a few questions."

"Like what for instance?" Bishop said coldly.

"You find any fingerprints in the girl's house this afternoon?"

"Smudges," Bishop said with disgust. "Nothing we can use to trace anything."

"Anything that makes you sure it was Sanderson?"

"Yeah," the detective said. "He killed her the same way as the other two and we found a couple of photos-the same ones he has in his house."

"Can you give me a fuller rundown on how the girl's body was found?"

Bishop looked disgusted. "You got all that from the report. How many times you want to hear it? The guy from the agency found the door open when he came for his appointment about an hour later and reported it."

"I see," Larry Davis said, writing. "And where were you two when it happened?"

"We were downtown in the Mexican section," Bishop began, then stopped, his face florid with anger. "Why, you son of a-."

"What's the matter?" Davis said, in apparent surprise.

"Nothing," Bishop spat. "I'll write your story for you and save you the trouble. While the two detectives in charge of the case ate tacos ten miles away, the prowler walked into the girl's home and throttled her! Or do you prefer strangled?"

Davis grinned. "Hey, you write a pretty good lead, Mike. You should have been a reporter."

"Lay off, Larry," Trask said again. "That kind of thing doesn't help anyone."

"All right," Davis said, pursing his lips for a moment. "I'll make a deal. You let me go with you wherever you look for this guy and I'll forget that lead."

"You know I can't do that," Bishop snapped.

"Every police reporter in town would want to come. For Christ's sake, what do you want me to do, follow him around with a bus?"

"We don't have to tell anybody," Davis grinned. "What do you say, Mike?"

"No dice," Bishop said. Davis shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, if that's how you want it. How do you like this lead, Mike?

"Cliff Bruce, the outraged husband of one of the prime victims sought by the rapist-killer, accused the police of bungling the entire case and said the prowler could walk into any of the victims' houses without attracting the slightest notice.

"When confronted with this statement, Lieutenant Mike Bishop made no comment. The detective in charge of the case and his partner revealed they were tracking the killer in a neighborhood miles from the scene when the slaying occurred."

"You can't print that, Davis," Trask said, angrily.

Davis smiled. "Want to bet?" He turned to Bishop. "What about my idea of going with you? What do you say, Mike?"

"I'm saying nothing," he said in a low, even voice, just loud enough to be heard by the reporter. "Don't try to con me and don't call me Mike."

Davis grinned weakly. "Is that all you have to say?"

"No. One other thing. You want anything else on this case, talk to Trask. Don't come near me. For your own benefit. I'm allergic to you."

"As you wish, sir," Davis said, acidly. "And for your own information, I think Bruce is right. Anybody could walk into those houses and strangle them."

"You'd better push off," Trask growled, "while you're still able to walk. Another crack like that and I may forget myself."

The reporter grinned, shrugged again and walked away.

Bishop stared at him with unconcealed loathing. "The bastard!" he said.

"He's kidding," Trask said. "He won't write anything like that, and even if he did, I doubt they'd print it. He's just baiting you, Mike."

"He's still a bastard," Bishop said again. "I still wonder why nobody in that art class recognizes anybody else."

They were interrupted by the cashier who pointed toward the telephone on her counter. Trask ran to the instrument.

Bishop watched the big, rawboned detective stride quickly to the phone. Suddenly he saw Trask nodding sharply toward him and then turn excitedly back to the phone. Trask blurted some words into the instrument and hung up quickly. He beckoned to Bishop in answer to his unvoiced question. Bishop grabbed the check and moved quickly to the counter.

Trask put his mouth to his superior's ear. "They think they just spotted him going into the Farmers Market. They're not sure."