Chapter 28 Chapter Twenty Eight

"She swore she couldn't go to the bar?" "Who knows? Nobody asked me to. But what I'm trying to say is she's a clean, self-respecting Jewish girl from Floral Park. A good Jewish girl who was a good Jewish boy." "Sarah Blaustein?" "AKA Sarah Bluestone, aka Sarah Blue, aka Sweetheart. Notice her hands and feet? They're a bit big for a girl, and that's one way to identify a transgender person. Of course, this It's not absolute either, there's always girls with big hands and boys with small hands. She can fool you, can't she?"

I nodded. "She was almost done with the rest of the surgery, and the date was probably set. The law stipulates that they can live as women for a year before they can enjoy medical insurance. Of course they all have medical insurance and all social benefits. They have one night. Pick up ten to twenty clients, all in the client's car, fast action. One shot is ten or twenty yuan, and they earn at least a few hundred yuan seven nights a week, all tax-free, and then they can receive medical insurance and Social security, plus child support if you have kids, and half the pimps have a guaranteed minimum income."

He and Dekin chatted along this topic for a while, while the technicians were busy measuring things, taking photos and collecting fingerprints around us.Afraid of disturbing them, we went to the hotel parking lot together. Durkin said, "You know what we ran into, huh? We hit Jack the Ripper fucking him." "I know," Garfield said. "Did anything happen to the other tenants? She must have made noise." "What are you kidding? Liars. 'I didn't see a thing, I didn't hear a thing, I gotta go.' Even if she did scream, anyone in the business would think it was a new joke. Tricks—they weren't having enough fun on their own back then for anyone to notice."

"First he checks into a fancy hotel downtown. Calls up a pretty call girl. Then he picks up a streetwalker and drags her to a cheap sex hotel. See if he gets fucked by a penis and an innocent Maru scared?" Garfield shrugged: "Maybe. You know, half of the warblers are roosters dressed as women. In some areas it's more than half." "The area around the pier in the West End is much more than half." "I've heard of it," Garfield said. "Ask clients, and some will admit they prefer men. They say men are better at blowjobs. Of course, they're not perverts, you know, because they're not the ones opening their mouths." .”

"Well, I understand the psychology of clients." "Whether he knew it or not, I don't think he was affected. He still did what he had to do." "He had sex with her?" "Hard to say, unless there's a mark on the sheet. It doesn't look like he's her first customer tonight." "Has he showered?" Garfield shrugged and spread his hands. "God knows," he said. "The manager said the towels were missing. When they cleaned the room, they replaced two bath towels and two hand towels, and neither was found." "He also took towels from Galaxy Hotel."

"Maybe he took it that time, but in a place like this? I mean, who knows if they clean the room every time. Same with the bathroom. I doubt they'll ever clean it up after the previous guests have left." Clean the bathtub again." "Maybe you'll find something." "Maybe." "Like fingerprints, etc. Did she find any skin under her nails?" "No. But someone in the lab might be able to find it." A muscle in his jaw was moving. "To be honest, thank God I'm not a forensic doctor or a technician. Being a cop is bad enough."

"I agree with that," Durkin said. I said, "If he picked her up on the street, maybe someone saw her get in the car." "We've sent some people out there trying to make statements, and maybe something will come out of it — if someone sees something, if they remember it, and if they're willing to speak." "Many ifs," Durkin said. "The manager here must have seen him," I said. "What does he remember?" "Not much. Let's talk to him again." The manager's complexion is sallow, with a pair of red eye circles, one can tell at a glance that he is a standard night owl.His breath smelled of alcohol, but he didn't behave like a drunkard.I think he probably drank a little after discovering the body to strengthen his courage.Alcohol only made him appear sluggish and unproductive.

"We're in business legitimately," he insisted.This is so ridiculous that we don't even bother to respond.I guess what he meant was that it wasn't every day someone was killed there. He'd never met Sweetheart.The man suspected of killing her came in alone, filled out his card, and paid in cash.That's not unusual, it's usually men coming in to check in here, and women waiting in the car.The car wasn't parked directly in front of the office, so when the man checked in, he didn't see the car.In fact, he had never seen the car at all. "You found it was gone," Garfield reminded him, "that's why you know there's no one in the room."

"There were people. As soon as I opened the door—" "You thought no one was there because the car drove away. How do you know it's gone if you've never seen it?" "Because the parking space is empty. There is a parking space in front of each room, and the number is the same as the room. I looked out and the parking space is empty, which means his car has left." "They always park according to the number?" "It should be taken care of." "A lot of things we're supposed to do. Pay your taxes, don't spit on the sidewalk, don't run red lights. This guy is in a hurry to fuck her, and what does he care about the number on the parking space? You saw that car."

"I--" "You looked once, maybe twice, and the car was parked there. Then you looked again, and it wasn't there, and you thought they must have gone. Is that so?" "I guess so." "Tell me about that car." "I didn't look closely. I just looked to make sure it was there. That's all." "What color is the car?" "Dark color." "Excellent. Two doors? Four doors?" "I did not notice." "New? Old? What brand?" "It's a new model," he said. "It's an American car, not a foreign one. As for the type of car. When I was a kid, they looked different, but now every car seems to be similar."

"He's right," Durkin said. "Except for the models made by GM," he said, "Grimoline and Pacer, these two models are still distinguishable. Everything else is the same." "Isn't that car a Grimuling or a walker?" "no." "Is it a sedan? A station wagon?" — Stick School · E Book Group — "To tell you the truth," said the manager, "I just noticed it was a car. It's all on the card: make, model, license plate number." "You mean the registration card?" "Yes. They all have to fill in." The card is on the table, and a layer of acetate is covered on it to preserve the fingerprints and leave it to the laboratory personnel to take samples. Name; Martin Albert Ricon Address: 211 Guildford Road City: Arkansas.fort smith Brand: Chevrolet Year: 1980 model; car Quite color: black License plate number: LJK-914 Signed: MA Rikang "The handwriting looks the same," I told Deggin, "but in print, who can tell the difference?" "Professionals can. And they can tell you, he's got a machete in a different way. The guy likes bunkers, notice? Fort Wayne, Indiana, Fort Smith, Arkansas." "There's an approximate pattern," Garfield said. "Ricon," Durkin said, "must be Italian." "M.A. Ricon, sounds like the man who invented the radio." "No, that's Maconley," Durkin said. "Well, it's close. The guy wants a feather in his hat and a celebrity." "Put a feather in his ass." "Maybe he got it on Sweetheart's ass, maybe it wasn't a feather. Martin Albert Ricon, funny pseudonym. What was his last name?" "Charles Owens Jones," I said, "Oh, he likes a middle name, he's a smart bastard, isn't he?" "Very clever," Durkin said. "Smart people, the ones who are really smart, usually use any word with meaning. Like 'Jones' is slang. Means addicted. You know, like they say Heroin Jones, like drug addicts say he has a hundred bucks Jones, meaning his addiction costs that much money a day." "Thank you so much for explaining it to me," Durkin said. "I'm just trying to do my best." "Because I've only been in this business for fourteen years, so I haven't dealt with a heroin addict." "Smart." "Did you find anything on the license plate?" "Same as the name and address. I called the Arkansas Superintendent's office and it was a waste of time. Even law-abiding guests make license plate numbers in places like this. They don't stop at the window when they check in. , lest our old man get suspicious and look it up. Not that he's gonna look it up, does he, man?" "There's no law that says I have to check," the man said. "They use pseudonyms, too. Strange that the guy uses Jones at Galaxy, and Rikon here. There must be a lot of Mr. Jones here, and the usual Smiths and Browns. Do you have a lot of Smiths?" "I'm not legally required to check my ID card," the man said. "Or get married and make fingers." "Or a wedding ring or a marriage certificate or something. Two consensual adults, hell, none of my business!" "Maybe Ricon means something in Italian," Garfield suggested. "You've finally used your brain," Durkin said.He asked the manager if he had an Italian dictionary.The man stared at him, embarrassed. "This place calls itself a motel," he said, shaking his head exaggeratedly. "I don't think there's a Bible." "Most rooms have it." "Jesus, really? It's next to the TV with the porn movies, right? It must be near the waterbed." "We only have two rooms for water beds," replied the poor wretch. "Water beds cost extra." "It's a good thing our Mr. Rikang is a little trickster," Garfield said, "otherwise Sweetheart would be drowning." "Talk about this guy," Durkin said, "and describe it again." "I told you--" "You have to tell it over and over again. How tall is he?" "It's pretty high." "My height? Shorter? Taller?" "I--" "What's he wearing? A hat? A tie?" "I really can't remember." "He walked in and asked you for a room. Then fill in the card and pay you in cash. By the way, how much do you charge for that kind of room?" "Twenty-eight dollars." "The amount is not small. You need to pay extra to watch a small movie?" "You have to put in coins." "It's very convenient. Twenty-eight yuan is still reasonable. If you can sublet a room several times a night, it's a lot of money. How does he pay for it?" "As I said, pay in cash." "I mean what bill? What did he give you, two fifteen?" "Two—" "He gave you a twenty and a ten?" "Two twenty, I think." "And you ask him for twelve? Wait, it's time for a tax increase, right?" "Tax is twenty-nine and forty cents." "He gives you forty, and you give him change." He remembered something again: "He gave me two twenty and forty cents." The man said, "I'll give him a ten and a dollar." "Look? You remember the deal." "Yes. I still remember." "Now tell me what he looks like. Is he white?" "Well, of course. White." "Fat? Thin?" "Thin, but not very thin. Thin." "beard?" "No." "Mustache?" "Maybe, I don't know." "There's something about him that you should never forget once you've seen it." "Then what?" "That's what we're looking for, John. That's what they call you, John?" "Usually call me Jack." "All right, Jack. You've done a good job. Where's his hair?" "I didn't notice his hair." "Of course you do. He bent over to register and you saw the top of his head, remember?" "I do not--" "Thick hair?" "I do not--" "They'll get a sketcher to work with him," Durkin said. "He's got to think of something. We'll just wait until the fucking Crazy Ripper loses control of his dick and we catch him on the spot, and we'll see Guess he'll look uglier than Sarah fucking Blaustein at times. She looks like a woman, doesn't she?" "More like a dead man." "I know. Raw meat at the butcher's window." We rode in his car over the rough terrain of the Cumborough Bridge.The sky has begun to light up.I was sober from being overtired, and an undercurrent of emotional ups and downs was about to surface.I could feel my vulnerability and I would cry or laugh out loud over any little thing. "I wonder what that would feel like," he said. "what?" "Hook up with that kind of guy. On the street or in a bar, anywhere. Then you take her to a hotel and she takes off her clothes and surprises you. I mean, how do you react?" "have no idea." "Of course, if she's already had the operation, you'll be on it and you won't find out. I don't think her hands are big. But speaking of it, women have big hands and men have small hands, and there are actually some." "Ok." "Speaking of her hands, she wears two rings. Did you notice?" "noticed." "One in each hand." "so what?" "He didn't take it." "Why did he take it?" "You said he took Kim Duckinen's." I didn't answer. — Stick School · E Book Group — He said softly, "Matthew, don't you still think that Kim Duckinen was killed for some reason?" A surge of anger surged inside me, swollen like an aneurysm.I sat still, trying to drive it away by will. "Don't mention the towel to me. He's the Ripper, he's a deranged, pathological killer who knows how to plan and has his own rules of the game. He's not the first case of this kind." "I was told not to touch the case, Joe. The warning was well done." "So what? She got slaughtered by a lunatic, but it's possible some of her friends didn't want her private life to come out. Maybe it's what you think. She had a married boyfriend, even if she died of fucking scarlet fever hand, and he will also warn you not to rummage through her ashes." I give myself a Miranda warning: you have the right to remain silent.I tell myself, and then exercise this right. "Unless you think Dakinen and Blaustein are close. Like, long-lost sisters. Oh, sorry, brother and sister. Or maybe they're brothers, maybe Dakinen had surgery a few years ago. Just a woman Said she was taller, didn't she?" "Maybe honey is just a smokescreen," I said. "How to say?" I went on and on. "Maybe he killed her as a distraction," I said, "to make it look like a random killing, to hide his motive for killing Daquinen." "Distraction. I beg you, what attention, who's paying attention?" "I have no idea." "Fuck no one's paying attention. But it's going to be now. Fuck journalists would be so happy to have serial killings. Readers of this kind of news must gobble it up with breakfast cornflakes. Catch it Opportunity can make a big fuss about the Jack the Ripper story, and those editors are going crazy. You talk about 'attention,' and now there is enough attention to burn his ass." "I guess so." "You know what's wrong with you, Scudder? You're too stubborn." "Maybe." "Your problem is that you work alone and one case at a time. I have too much shit on my desk so I don't hesitate to let it go, but you're just the opposite. You're trying to cling on as hard as you can Don't let go." "Is that the case?" "I don't know. That's what it sounds like." He let go of the steering wheel with one hand and patted my arm. "I didn't mean to pour cold water on it," he said. Tried to throw a cap on it, only to pop up from somewhere else. You did a great job." "yes?" "Yes. We have overlooked some details. Some of the questions you raised may give us a little advantage. Who knows?" I have no idea.I just know how tired I am. He fell silent as we drove into town.In front of my hotel, he stopped and said, "Garfield just mentioned that maybe ricon has some meaning in Italian." "It shouldn't be difficult to check." "Oh, of course it's not hard. If everything was so easy, well, we'll look it up, and you know what we'll find? Find out that Ricomon meant Jones." I went upstairs, undressed and went to bed.Ten minutes later, I got up again.I feel dirty and have an itchy scalp.I took an overheated shower and nearly scrubbed off a layer of skin.I turn off the shower head and tell myself there's no reason to shave before bed.Then apply foam, or scrape.When I was done I put on my robe and sat on the edge of the bed, then sat down on the chair. Never let yourself be too hungry, too angry, too lonely, or too tired, they say. Any of the four can cause you to lose your center of gravity and fall into a wine glass.The way I see it, I've run all four bases in one day, been through it all from start to finish.Strangely, I have no desire to drink. I took the gun out of my pocket, tried to put it back in the dresser drawer, then changed my mind and sat back in the chair, playing with the pistol in both hands. When was the last time I shot a gun? In fact, without trying to recall, it was that night in Washington Heights Uptown.I cornered two robbers into the street and shot them and accidentally killed a little girl. I remained at the police station after the incident, and during that time I never had the opportunity to draw a police gun, let alone fire it. Of course, I have not fired a gun since I resigned. I can't go shoot tonight.Because something reminded me that the car I was aiming at wasn't the shooter, but a drunk kid?Because my intuition secretly told me, do I have to wait to determine who the target is? No.The above reasons do not convince me. I froze.If instead of a kid with a bottle of wine I saw a gangster with a submachine gun, I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger.My fingers are numb. I disassembled the pistol, shook out the chamber, and closed the gun again.I aimed my empty gun at the trash can opposite and squeezed the trigger a few times.The clicking sound of the firing pin falling on the empty barrel was especially sharp and piercing in this small room. I aimed at the mirror on the dresser.Click! Prove shit.The barrel is empty, I know it is.I could take this thing to a shooting range, load it up, fire at a target, and that wouldn't prove anything. I'm pretty annoyed at not being able to fire the gun, but I'm just glad I didn't pull the trigger, otherwise that burst of bullets into a car full of kids would have been unimaginable - and who knows what it would have done to me?Although exhausted, I fought the puzzle a few rounds.I'm glad I didn't kill anyone, but I'm also worried that if I lose my self-defense ability, my future will be bleak.My mind just chased its own tail, going around and around. I took off my robe and went to bed, but was too stiff to relax.I put on my go-to suit again, and using the end of the nail file as a screwdriver, I took the revolver apart to clean it.I put the parts in one pocket, and in the other four cartridges and the two knives I'd picked up from the robbers. It was already morning and the sky was bright.I walked up to Ninth Avenue, and then north to Fifty-eighth Street, where I threw the knife into the sewer grate.I crossed the road to another grated gate, and stood near it with my hands in my pockets, four cartridges in one hand, and the dismantled parts of the revolver in my hand. If you can't use it, why carry a gun?Why have a gun you can't use? On the way back to the hotel, I stopped by a delicatessen.The customer in front of me bought two six-packs of 'Old English Eight Hundred' ale. I picked four bars of chocolate, paid for them, ate one on the way, and ate the other two back home. I took the revolver parts out of my pocket, Reloaded. I loaded four of the six cartridges. Then put the gun in the dresser drawer. I climbed into bed and told myself not to get out of bed whether I was asleep or not, laughing at my decision before my mind drifted off.