“Who is it?” he asked.
“Hector Rodriguez,” a voice with a Hispanic accent called out. “Mr. Adams told me you wanted to see me.”
Bernstein opened the door. “Come in.”
The slight, dark-skinned man moved into the room. He wore a hotel uniform and a goatee that looked like it had been penciled onto his face. “Mr. Adams said you have some questions about the suicide?”
“Hector, did anyone notice this before?”
Hector squinted at the chain lock. “I don’t think so. No one’s used this room since the suicide.”
“Are broken chain locks a common occurrence in this place?”
“No, sir, they’re not. I’ll have it replaced right away.”
Bernstein wondered if the lock had been broken when Grey first came into the room. Somehow he doubted it. “Do you remember Dr. Grey checking in?”
“A little,” Hector replied. “I mean, he jumped out the window a few minutes after he checked in. He couldn’t have been in the room for more than five minutes.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“He had very blond hair—”
“I don’t mean looks-wise. I mean, how did he act? How was he behaving?”
“Behaving?”
“Yes. Did he seem depressed, for example?”
“No, not depressed. I’d say nervous was more like it. He was sweating like a pig.”
“I see . . .” Bernstein’s hands flew forward. “Hold it a second. Did you just say Dr. Grey had blond hair?”
“Very blond.”
Max’s eyes squinted in bafflement. He opened his file and looked at a recent photograph of Bruce Grey. The man in the photograph had black hair. “Is this the man who checked in that night?”
Hector stared at the picture for a good ten seconds. “I can’t say for sure. He looked much different. He didn’t have a beard, and like I said before, his hair was blond.”
Bernstein opened the file. He had tried to avoid the police photos because he was not fond of looking at splattered remains, but now he knew that he would have to look. He thumbed through the papers until he arrived at the first glossy photograph. There was not enough face left to tell if there had ever been a beard, but even through the thick patches of blood, Max could see that the dead man definitely had blond hair. Like Hector said, very blond.
Max closed both the file and his eyes. Why the sudden appearance change? A new hairdo and quick shave for a leap through a window seemed a tad bizarre, to say the least.
“Tell me what Dr. Grey said to you when he checked in.”
Hector looked up, trying to remember. “Nothing special. He just said he wanted a room. I asked, ‘How many nights, sir?’ and he said, ‘One.’ ”
“That’s it?”
“I said, ‘Will that be cash or charge?’ and he said, ‘Cash.’ Then I gave him the key and he took off.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure.”
He thought a moment. “That was it.”
“He didn’t have any special requests for his room?”
“No.”
“He didn’t ask for the room to be on a certain floor?”
Hector shook his head. “I don’t even think he looked at the number on the key until he stepped into the elevator.”
Cold fear slid down Bernstein’s chest. His finger went back into his mouth, but there was nothing left to chew except skin. This whole thing was getting messy and complicated, too messy and too complicated. Bruce Grey had not asked for a special room. He had not asked for a room with a view or a room near an elevator or one of those new no-smoking rooms. He had not asked for a room with a king-sized bed or a queen-sized bed or two separate beds. And most of all Bruce Grey had not asked for a room on a high floor. For all he knew, he could have gotten a room on the ground level.
“Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”
“No, that’s it for now.”
Hector Rodriguez turned to leave and then stopped. “I saw your name in the Herald, Lieutenant. I hope you catch that whacko before he slices off somebody else’s nuts.”
Max’s head shot up. “What did you say?”
“Cutting off a man’s balls. Pure loco, huh, Lieutenant?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“The evening edition. Front cover. What kind of a man does something like that? City’s full of sickos.”
Once again, Max rubbed his face and eyes with his right hand. The press. The mayor. The gay activists.
Help.
8
THE ringing of the telephone jerked George out of his sleep. He awoke, as he always did, quickly, alert. He picked up the receiver before the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Did you read this morning’s paper?”
George sat up and checked his watch. The voice on the other end sounded different this time—still agitated and strained, but now there was something else. More fear. Maybe even anger. “No,” George replied. “Should I have?”
“According to the Herald, the Gay Slasher tortured and castrated Scott Trian before killing him.”
“You sound upset.”
“They were supposed to die quickly, damn it! I never said anything about torture or mutilation.”
“If you’re unhappy with my work—”
“Unhappy? You’re a lunatic. I thought I was dealing with a professional, but you’re a goddamn psychopath.”
“I was following your orders,” George said. “The mutilation just speeds up the end result. It makes sense financially.”
There was stunned silence on the other end.
George continued. “I assume you also read that everything went smoothly with Jenkins’ murder. I dumped the body just where you wanted it.”
“Did . . . did you disfigure him?”
“He died from the first stab wound. The same with Whitherson.”
“You’re sure?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Then just promise me you won’t hurt any of the others.”
George almost smiled. “I am merely the executioner, the one who pulls the switch or drops the gas pellet. But you . . . you are the judge and jury. You are the one who ordered their deaths.”
“No,” the voice said slowly, “I am not.”
Again there was silence. Then the voice said, “Promise me, George. Promise me that no others will be needlessly tortured.”