‘Looks interesting. Most homicides are boring. Husband kills his wife’s boyfriend. Some psycho kills a bunch of women because they remind him of his mother. One crack dealer offs another crack dealer. I’ve seen it all a hundred times. It gets tedious. This is different, I think. That’s why I don’t want to let go. We all need variety in our lives, Ross. That’s why it’s a mistake for you to wear brown suits all the time.’
Mondale ignored the jibe. ‘You think we got an important case on our hands this time?’
‘Three murders … that doesn’t strike you as important?’
‘I mean something really big,’ Mondale said impatiently. ‘Like the Manson Family or the Hillside Strangler or something?’
‘Could be. Depends on how it develops. But, yeah, I suspect this is going to be the kind of story that sells newspapers and pumps up the ratings on TV news.’
Mondale thought about that, and his eyes swam out of focus.
‘One thing I insist on,’ Dan said, leaning forward on his chair, folding his hands on the desk, and assuming an earnest expression. ‘If I’m going to be in charge of this case, I don’t want to have to waste time talking to reporters, giving interviews. You’ve got to keep those bastards off my back. Let them film all the bloodstains they want, so they’ll have lots of great footage for the dinner-hour broadcast, but keep them away. I’m no good at dealing with them.’
Mondale’s eyes swam back into focus. ‘Uh … yeah, of course, no problem. The press can be a royal pain in the ass.’
To Mondale, the cameras and publicity were as nourishing as the food of the gods, and he was delighted by the prospect of being the center of media attention. ‘You let them to me.’
‘Fine,’ Dan said.
‘And you report to me, nobody but me.’
‘Sure.’
‘Daily, up-to-the-minute reports.’
‘Whatever you say.’
Mondale stared at him, disbelieving but unwilling to challenge him. Every man liked to dream. Even Ross Mondale.
‘With this manpower shortage and everything,’ Dan said, ‘don’t you have work to do?’
The captain walked off toward his own office, stopped after a few steps, glanced back, and said, ‘So far we’ve got two moderately prominent psychologists dead, and prominent people tend to know other prominent people. So you might be moving in different circles from those you muck around in when a dope dealer gets wasted. Besides, if this does get to be a hot case with lots of press attention, you and I will probably have meetings with the chief, with members of the commission, maybe even with the mayor.’
‘So?’
‘So don’t step on any toes.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Ross, I wouldn’t ever dance with any of those guys.’
Mondale shook his head. ‘Christ.’
Dan watched the captain walk away. When he was alone again, he returned to his lists.
8
The sky was brightening from black to gray-black. Dawn hadn’t crawled out of its hole yet, but it was creeping close, and it would crest the hilly horizon in ten or fifteen minutes.
The public parking lot of Valley Medical was nearly deserted, a patchwork of shadows and evenly spaced pools of jaundiced light from the sodium-vapor lamps.
Sitting behind the wheel of his Volvo, Ned Rink hated to see the night end. He was a night person, an owl rather than a lark. He was not able to function well or think clearly until midafternoon, and he didn’t begin to hit his stride until after midnight. That preference was no doubt programmed into his genes, for his mother had been the same way; his personal biological clock was out of sync with those of most people.
Nevertheless, living at night was also a matter of choice: He felt more at home in the darkness. He was an ugly man, and he knew it. He felt conspicuous in broad daylight, but he believed that the night softened his ugliness and made it less noticeable. His forehead was too narrow and sloped, suggesting limited intelligence, although he was actually far from stupid. His small eyes were set too close, and his nose was a beak, and his other features were crudely formed. He was five-seven, with big shoulders and long arms and a barrel chest that was disproportionate to his height. As a child, he’d had to endure the cruel taunting of other kids who had nicknamed him Ape. Their ridicule and harassment had made him so tense that he’d developed an ulcer by the time he was thirteen years old. These days, Ned Rink didn’t take that sort of crap from anyone. These days, if somebody gave him a hard time, he just killed his tormentor, blew his brains out with no hesitation and no remorse. That was a great way to deal with stress; his ulcers had healed long ago.