Without Mercy Read online

  “Shut up,” said Rackman, looking into his wallet.

  “I wanna call my lawyer!”

  “I said shut up.”

  Rackman looked through his wallet. A card said his name was Vincent LaGozzi and he lived on East Thirty-third Street. “What do you do for a living, LaGozzi?”

  “I work in an office.”

  “What office?”

  “You’re not gonna get me fired are you?”

  “If you’re clean you won’t get fired.”

  “What have I done?”

  “I asked what office you worked in.”

  “An insurance company.”

  “Which one?”

  “Lincoln Mutual.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Four twenty-three Lexington Avenue.”

  “How long you been working there?”

  “Six years.”

  “You’d better not be lying, because we’re going to check it out.”

  “I’m not lying. Hey—what’s going on here, anyway? It’s not against the law to meet a girl.”

  Rackman looked at Dancy. “Call Jenkins and have him send in the backup to get this guy and check out his story.”

  Dancy went for the telephone, and LaGozzi looked horrified.

  “Are you arresting me?” LaGozzi asked.

  “No, we’re just taking you in for questioning.”

  “Questioning about what?”

  “The Slasher murder case.”

  LaGozzi stared at Rackman for a few seconds. “The Slasher murder case?”

  Chapter Twelve

  A few blocks away, Kowalchuk walked into the West Side YMCA, carrying a shopping bag full of new clothes. He made his way to the office and stood at the counter until a young black man got up from his desk and came over to him.

  “Can I help you?” the black man asked. He wore a yellow tee-shirt with West Side Y on it, and his name was Charles Garvin.

  “How much to use the facilities for a day?” Kowalchuk asked.

  Garvin peered at his face for a few seconds. “Five dollars.”

  Kowalchuk reached into his pocket and took out five dollars. Garvin wrote him a receipt.

  “You know where to go?” Garvin asked.

  “No.”

  Garvin pointed to the door. “Just go out there and turn right. Follow the signs to the locker room.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kowalchuk walked out of the office and turned right. Garvin watched him go, and wondered if his imagination was running away with him. The cops from Midtown North had been through the West Side Y twice looking for the Slasher, and they’d shown Garvin his picture. That man looked something like the Slasher except for his beard. He was heavyset and dressed like a bum; that fit the description too. Nah, it couldn’t be him, Garvin thought, returning to his desk.

  He resumed going through the tickler file to see which memberships would expire next month. Whistling a tune, he took out the cards and looked through them to make certain the dates were correct. The bearded man’s face floated before him. If I call the cops and it isn’t him I’ll look like an asshole. The guy’ll probably sue me. But the cops said to call if anybody resembling the guy showed up. Garvin was plagued with indecision. He didn’t want to call and have the guy turn out not to be the Slasher, but on the other hand, what if he was the Slasher?

  Garvin didn’t know what to do. Oh what the hell, he thought. I might as well call. He picked up his phone and dialed nine-one-one.

  “Police Emergency,” said a woman’s voice.

  “Hello,” Garvin told her. “I work in the West Side Y and a guy just came in here who looks a little like the Slasher. I don’t know if it’s really him or not, but I thought I’d better call anyway.”

  “We’ll check it out,” the woman said. “What’s the address?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Patrolmen Arthur Spelling and Jimmie Holmes were cruising down Columbus Avenue when the call came over the radio. “Signal six-eighteen . . . six-eighteen ... A man answering the description of the Slasher has just entered the West Side YMCA on Five West Sixty-third Street. A one-three is requested. Which car responding?’’

  “I’ll take it,” said Holmes, sitting in the passenger seat. He’d been with the NYPD for fifteen years and had long black sideburns. Picking up the microphone, he said, “Car two eighty-one responding to the one-three.”

  “Thank you, car two eighty-one.”

  “Do you think I should put on the siren?” Patrolman Spelling asked Holmes. He wore his brown hair over his ears and had it cut every two weeks by a hair stylist on Lexington Avenue.

  “Naw, we don’t want to scare him, but it probably isn’t the Slasher anyway.’’

  Spelling pressed down on the accelerator, and the patrol car gathered speed. As they were crossing Sixty-fifth Street, another voice came on the radio, “Car six-sixteen responding to the one-three.”

  Holmes looked at Spelling. “That’s Baker, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, Baker and Fitzpatrick I think.” On the second floor of Midtown North, Jenkins sat in his office, drumming his fingers on his desk. He’d just heard the radio call and was wondering whether to drive over to the West Side Y. It was only twelve blocks uptown. What the hell, he thought he’d check it out. He looked at the schedule on his clipboard and saw that Rackman and his bunch would be in front of the Coliseum right now, waiting for another fat guy to hit on Dorothy Owens. The Coliseum was on the way to the Y; he could stop and pick Rackman up, because Rackman had been on this case since the beginning and would want to be in on the action.

  Jenkins stood behind his desk and straightened his tie. He tapped his .38 in his belt holster and walked into the outer office, where Detective Donaldson was reading a copy of Penthouse magazine.

  “I’m going to check out that situation in the Y,” Jenkins told him. “Watch the store until I get back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kowalchuk stood under the hot jets of water in the shower room of the Y. It was a public shower room and a few other guys were with him.

  “Nice tattoo you’ve got there,’’ said one of the guys, who sounded gay. “Looks like you just got it.”

  “I did.”

  “The scab’s still on it.”

  “I know.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  Kowalchuk looked at the guy through the steam and mist. He was young and well-muscled with a horse tattooed on his bicep.

  “Someplace in Brooklyn,” Kowalchuk said evasively.

  “Coney Island?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember what place. I was a little drunk at the time.”

  Kowalchuk turned away from the guy and put his face under the nozzle. He’d trimmed his beard with scissors and a razor before coming into the shower, and he wanted to make sure all the little hairs were out, otherwise they’d be itchy.

  He stepped back and let the water run onto his stomach; it felt good to take a nice hot shower. He’d like to stay for another half-hour, but he had to get moving. It wasn’t smart for the Slasher to stay in one place for too long.

  He turned off the knobs and stepped out of the shower stall. His big YMCA towel was on the hook, and he lifted it off, plunging his wet beard into it. He walked into the locker room and stopped at the locker he’d taken, twirling the dial on the combination lock. The lock snapped open and he unlatched the door. Inside was the suit he’d bought at Macy’s.

  First he put on his new underwear, and then the pants of the suit. He transferred the stuff in his jeans pockets to the pockets of the suit pants, looking surreptitiously around before dropping in the knife. Then he sat on the bench and put on his new stockings and shoes. He’d look like a businessman once he had the whole outfit on. Even the salesman at Macy’s had remarked how distinguished he’d looked. Kowalchuk’s plan was to check into a nice midtown hotel and call one of the whores who advertised in The New York Review of Sex that they’d come to your apartment or hotel for fifty dollars. He’
d kill her and then move on.

  Standing, he put on his new white shirt as other men dressed or undressed around him in the locker room. A man in his sixties who looked more dead than alive sat and wheezed on the bench a few feet down. Various conversations were taking place, and many of the voices sounded gay. Kowalchuk didn’t like gay men. He couldn’t understand why a man would want to act like a woman.

  “You check the lockers, and PU check the shower room,” a man said.

  Kowalchuk’s ears perked up. What the hell was that? He figured it couldn’t be anything important. He must be getting too jumpy. He put on his tie and walked between the row of lockers to the mirror near the shower room, so he could see what he was doing when he tied it.

  As he turned the corner at the end of the lockers, he saw a cop looking into the shower stall! Kowalchuk froze and swallowed hard. Are they looking for me or is something else going on? I’d better get out of here. He stepped back to his locker, his brain tumultuous with alternate modes of action. Should I pick up my stuff or leave without it?

  Another cop appeared between the two rows of lockers and his eyes connected with Kowalchuk’s. The cop hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward Kowalchuk, scrutinizing his face.

  “Do you have any identification with you, sir?” the cop asked.

  “Me?” asked Kowalchuk, looking around.

  “Yes.”

  The cop was abreast of him now, and Kowalchuk’s heart beat a mile a minute.

  “Is there any problem, officer?”

  “I don’t think so, but could I see your identification please?”

  “Sure, just a moment.”

  Kowalchuk reached into his locker, and noticed the cop leaning closer to see what he was doing. Kowalchuk hissed and swung out his elbow with all his strength. He caught the cop on the chin, and the cop went sprawling backward. The naked old man screamed, and in an instant Kowalchuk had his knife out. He hit the button and lunged at the falling cop, catching him on the neck. The cop’s neck yawned open and blood rushed out as he crashed against the lockers. Before he hit the floor, Kowalchuk had taken away his gun.

  The other cop jumped into view, saw Kowalchuk with the gun, and darted back behind a locker.

  “Drop that gun!” the cop yelled, taking out his own revolver.

  Kowalchuk fired at him, and his bullet passed easily through the sheet metal lockers into the chest of the cop. The cop went flying backward and landed against one of the white tile walls. Kowalchuk shot him again, and the men in the locker room were hollering for help and running in all directions. Kowalchuk licked his lips, alone with the dead cops. He realized he shouldn’t have come here, and that there was no safe place for him in New York anymore. Swarms of cops would be here any moment, and somehow he had to get away, There must be a back entrance to the building. It was his only chance.

  He ran down the corridor toward the main hallway of the Y. Ahead he heard a terrific commotion, but Kowalchuk was ready for anything now. He’d known that sooner or later it would come to this, and now he was prepared to take things as far as they’d go.

  He came to the main hallway. One end led to the street and the other to the rear of the building. The hallway was deserted in both directions, but he heard loud voices and banging in the distance.

  “Drop that gun and put your hands up!”

  Kowalchuk squinted and saw a cop partially hidden in a doorway, his pistol in the air. Kowalchuk hadn’t noticed him before, nor the cop in the other doorway farther down the hall. Firing a wild shot at the first cop, Kowalchuk turned and ran back to the shower room. He heard footsteps coming after him, and he entered the shower room, deserted now except for the two dead cops. Running through the first opening he saw, he sped down a corridor and found himself in the swimming pool room, which was also deserted. Towels and bathing caps were lying around, and he realized that someone must have passed the word to evacuate the Y. He had to get the hell out of there before the cops surrounded it.

  He continued moving toward the rear of the building. There was a door toward the end of the swimming pool, and he opened it, seeing a flight of stairs. Listening for a few moments, he heard nothing. He climbed the stairs and found himself in another locker room that had women’s apparel on the benches and hanging in the open lockers.

  He heard footsteps coming from the direction of the stairs he’d just climbed. He ran out of the locker room and down a corridor lined with doors.

  “I heard him!” somebody shouted.

  Breathing through his teeth, Kowalchuk threw open one of the doors and entered a small classroom. He closed the door and dashed to the windows, smiling when he saw an alley and the rear of the buildings on the next street. Laughing triumphantly, he picked up a chair and smashed out the window panes. When they were clear of glass, he crawled through to the ledge and jumped. He fell one story to the graveled alleyway, rolled over to absorb the shock, and got to his feet. Like a huge crazed animal, he ran down the alley to freedom.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sirens were blaring all over the West Side as Jenkins stopped his unmarked car beside the Coliseum. Rackman had a fat guy against the wall and Olivero was slapping him down for weapons. Dancy and Dorothy Owens stood by, and there was a crowd of onlookers. Jenkins hit his horn and they looked toward him. He pointed at Rackman and called his name. Rackman said a few words to Olivero and then ran over to Jenkins’ car, bending down to the side window.

  “What’s going on?” Rackman asked.

  “They’ve got Kowalchuk cornered in the West Side Y! Get in!”

  Rackman ran around the front of the car and dropped into the front seat. Before he closed the door Jenkins already was zooming out into the traffic. He turned on his siren and joined the throng of police cars going up Broadway.

  “When’d this happen?” Rackman asked.

  “Just a few minutes ago. He killed two cops already.”

  “Damn!”

  Rackman took out his revolver and spun the chamber around. It was loaded and ready to go. He chewed his lower lip and Jenkins weaved through the cars and crowds on Broadway. When they reached Sixty-third Street they saw it was filled with police cars and ambulances. Jenkins started to turn onto the street.

  “Go around to Sixty-fourth,” Rackman said. “He’ll never come out this way.”

  Jenkins straightened out the wheel and drove one more block, turning right onto Sixty-fourth. It too was filled with police cars parked at the rear of the Y.

  “I wonder if there are any side entrances to the building,” Rackman said as Jenkins coasted to the rear of the Y.

  “I don’t know.”

  Jenkins stopped behind a green and white patrol car, and Rackman got out before Jenkins had turned the engine off. Rackman walked up to a gold-braided captain looking at the building.

  “We got him yet?” Rackman asked.

  The captain looked at him. “Not yet. We’re going through the building from bottom to top. If he’s in there, we’ll get him.”

  Jenkins joined them. “What’s going on?”

  Rackman turned around. “They haven’t got him yet.”

  “Let’s go in the building.”

  Rackman happened to glance over Jenkins’ shoulder, and saw a big man in a white shirt and beard come running out the driveway of the new apartment building they’d passed on the way up the block. The man looked at the police cars behind the Y, then turned and ran the other way.

  Rackman pointed down the block to the big man in the white shirt. “I think I just saw him!”

  The captain squinted. “He’s got a beard and a white shirt!” he said excitedly. “That might be him!”

  The captain raised his whistle to his lips and blew hard. Rackman bent over and started running after the man in the white shirt.

  “Halt!Police!” Rackman yelled.

  The man in the white shirt looked over his shoulder at Rackman and kept on running. Rackman pulled out his revolver and tried to increase his speed. The worl
d filled with the sound of police whistles.

  Kowalchuk cursed, turned, and fired a wild shot at Rackman, who dropped to his belly on the sidewalk. Kowalchuk fired again, and people were screaming, fleeing out of the way. Kowalchuk aimed at one of the uniformed cops running down the block, and the pistol went click. Empty. Kowalchuk snarled as he threw the pistol away and went running into the big intersection in front of Lincoln Center. On the other side of the street he saw a sign that said: IRT Subway, with an arrow pointing down. The light was against him, but he had to get into that subway. It was the only chance he had.

  Rackman, lying on his stomach, held his revolver in both hands and drew a bead on Kowalchuk. He thought he could bring him down, but there were too many people and cars out there. He might hit somebody by mistake. Bolting to his feet, he took off after Kowalchuk.

  Kowalchuk ran into the street, holding his hand out to traffic. Spittle flecked his lips; his eyes were wild and crazy. A yellow cab bearing down on him screeched its brakes but Kowalchuk kept going. He dodged a bus and waited for a Volkswagen Rabbit to pass. He ran in front of another yellow cab, made it past a Chevrolet, and leapt onto the island in the middle of the intersection. Two little old ladies were sitting on the bench in the island looking disapprovingly at him. If he could just make it into that subway station he was sure he could get away. Wiping perspiration from his brow, he glanced back and saw cops running down Sixty-fourth Street after him. A plainclothes cop in a blue blazer was in front.

  Kowalchuk gritted his teeth and held up his hand again as he charged into the traffic. Horns blew and brakes screeched, but he looked straight ahead at the subway station and kept going. He was frightened now; he saw the game coming to an end. A fender grazed his leg, but he kept going. Another car actually hit him as it came to a stop, but its momentum was gone and it only knocked Kowalchuk to the side a few feet. He kept going to the far sidewalk and his heart erupted with joy as his foot fell upon it.

  He ran down the steps to the subway station and hoped a train would be coming, but when he reached the station no train was waiting for him. He jumped over the turnstiles and everybody turned to look at him.