Chapter 16

After he parked the car, Lieutenant Bishop told Trask to follow him into the alley. "Hear anything?" Bishop whispered.

Trask shook his head. "I'm going in." He reached for the handle.

"Shoes off!" Bishop said. "Psychos don't always think. If he hears us, he might break her neck."

The big Irishman winced and pulled off his shoes. Bishop and Reilly followed suit. The door was unlocked. Trask moved it back very slowly, muffling the sound of the hinges.

Bishop put a finger to his lips and nudged Trask into the laundry room. On cat feet the detectives moved into the carpeted hallway. Sally Rosson's apartment was laid out like a railroad car. There was a comfortable-sized living room in the front. Behind it in a row were a dining room, a kitchen, bath, and bedroom.

As the two men crouched in the corridor linking the rooms, they could see Sally facing them. She was sitting on a love seat in full view. They could not make out the visitor's head. He was sitting too low in his big armchair. But they could see his feet.

Something about the man's shoes seemed familiar to Bishop. It teased his curiosity to look at them. But he could not remember where he had seen them. He turned to Trask. "I swear I've seen those shoes."

Trask nodded tensely. "We rush him now or wait?"

"Hold your horses, man."

The Irishman crouched with his gun in hand, sweat trickling down his neck.

From their position halfway down the long corridor, they could see Sally's frightened face and see her lips move. But they could not hear her. Or him. The sounds were too faint.

The strain on the Irishman worsened as the girl's terror grew.

"Let me rush him now," he whispered to Bishop.

"No, you damned fool," Bishop rasped in his ear. "Look at her face. How do you know what he has in his hand? He may have a knife or a gun. This guy's insane, man. Don't you understand? He hears you coming. Wham. She may get a bullet in her stomach."

Trask nodded. Bishop was right. The explanation of the girl's terror might be that. The prowler might be pointing a gun at her. Or did she look like that because of the dirty things he was threatening?

He tried to rein in his fears for the girl. Calm down, he told himself. But the expression on her face worried him. The prowler might shoot her even without hearing them, he thought. He might lay a hand on her, and if she refused, he might strangle her then. Or fire at her. Or stab her.

He felt his temples throb and sweat on the palms of his hands. Even the gun felt wet. He stared at the frightened girl helplessly, wanting to aid her. Afraid to move.

Suddenly he saw Sally's face change and her hand fly to her throat. Her voice suddenly became audible.

"Please don't kill me," she begged.

At the same moment, the visitor rose toward her. Trask sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and ran.

The visitor was taken completely by surprise as the Irishman gun-whipped him furiously across the head.

Through the fog and storm in his ears, Trask could hear the girl and Bishop yelling at him. But it took both Bishop's arms to stop him from bludgeoning the man to death. As he drew back, he looked down at the man's bloody head and stared unbelievingly.

It was Larry Davis.

Speechless, he stared at Bishop. His chief looked almost as incredulous.

"You're the prowler, Larry?" Bishop said finally. "You?"

The reporter groaned as he felt his head and shook his head. "No, of course not."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Trask said angrily.

"Can I have a drink?" Davis said. "And some towels? Or do you want me to bleed to death?"

They helped him up and moved him to the couch.

"You know him?" Sally said, confused.

Trask grimaced. "He's a reporter. And for all I know, a killer, too."

Bishop turned to her. "Better get him some towels and some whiskey if you have any. He's got some bad cuts on his head. Not that you don't deserve it," he snapped at Davis. "I should have let Trask kill you. You'd better have a damned good explanation, sonny. For my money, I can't think of a better guy I'd like to book for those killings."

When his head was bandaged and he had swallowed a strong drink of bourbon, the reporter told them his story.

The whole idea had been a gag he had dreamed up because of the prowler's escapes.

"I wanted to prove what I said to you. That anybody could get into these apartments without police interference."

He rubbed his head ruefully. "I proved it all right."

The detectives exchanged glances, and Bishop shook his head.

"You mean you barged in here as the prowler just to get a goddamned feature story? Why, you disgusting little rat. I ought to book you for-" He shook his head angrily. "I don't know what-anything, just to get that stupid smirk of yours out of circulation."

Davis bowed his head. "You have every right, Lieutenant. It was disgusting." He looked at the girl. "I didn't mean it to go this far. I just wanted a few quotes from you and good color stuff."

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Trask stormed. "If I didn't have this badge on, I'd beat your brains out." He turned to Sally. "What was he saying or doing that made you look like that?"

"I was trying to scare her," Larry said, from the couch. "So I could write how the prowler affected someone. Then when I saw how it worked, I felt guilty and tried to calm her down. I got up to pat her hand and tell her who I was when you came down on me like a ton of bricks."

Trask scrutinized him for a minute. "Mike, you don't think he may be lying, do you? You don't think he's really the prowler, do you?"

Bishop watched the injured man silently. "I wouldn't put it past him. He's a vindictive bastard and a sadist. Likes hurting people. I think we ought to take him in."

The reporter's eyes widened with horror. "You mean you're arresting me for murder? Are you out of your head, Lieutenant?"

"No, I'm not out of my head," Bishop barked. "You are. I'm out hunting for a dangerous sex killer and you've fallen into the trap. So I'm hauling you in. If you want to call a lawyer, there's the phone."

Sally stared at them all as if she were watching a weird comedy.

"You mean he's really the one?" she said, incredulously.

"You're crazy," the newspaperman yelled, jumping up from the couch. He groaned at the pain caused by the sudden movement.

"You can't arrest me. I'm a newspaperman. I was working on a story when those attacks happened."

"All of them?" Bishop asked.

"Well, I was off yesterday morning," Davis said, "but I was working the other time. And also when he went after Penny Bruce. Look, Lieutenant, I know this was a bad idea. And I'm sorry. But you're not going to arrest me for that."

"Not for coming here if you're clean," Bishop said. "Unless the lady prefers charges. But I'm booking you until we check your story."

"How long will that take?" Davis said. "I went up to San Francisco the day of the first killing."

"Oh, I think about two or three days."

"Two or three days!" Davis yelled. "You're kidding."

"I'm not, sonny. Get up now."

"But day after tomorrow's my day off," he moaned. "I was going down to Tijuana to see the bullfights."

"Sorry, Davis. This is a murder case. And if you've been reading the papers, too many suspects have been giving us the slip."

He turned to Trask and winked.