“The same thing I told you. That I haven’t seen her.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. And he didn’t leave a card,” he added quickly.
“What’d he look like?”
“Normal looking.”
“Glasses? Beard? Mustache? Distinguishing mole?”
“Normal,” he said.
“Black or white?”
“White.”
“He must have been her probation officer,” I said. “Not parole. That’s for prison.”
“I do not know anything about that. He said parole. I remember that much. He was very specific about it.”
“Specific?”
“As though he thought it would make an impression on me. ‘Parole officer,’” he said, mimicking the visitor’s words.
“OK,” I said, wondering what it meant. Why would someone calling himself a parole officer be looking for Jessica? “Did he leave a number or anything?”
“I believe he did.”
“Do you have it?”
“I threw it away.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, I don’t want any trouble.”
“I can see that,” I said.
12
KAREN FEINBERG HAD EVEN LESS TIME FOR me the next morning. But she agreed to find out the name of Jessica’s last probation officer. I thanked her, got up from my kitchen table, refilled my McCulloh College mug with more coffee, and called the next number on my list.
“Kevin Harding.” The Dispatch reporter answered on the second ring.
“It’s Andy Hayes. Got a minute?”
There was an uncomfortably long pause before he answered. “Not really. I haven’t updated my Twitter feed since I got in.”
“Why I auto-schedule mine first thing every morning. Listen.” I told him what I wanted. There was another pause.
“You know there’s like twenty task forces already looking for this guy?”
“I’m not after the killer. It’s a missing person case. At least I hope she’s just missing.”
“Who is it?”
I told him. I heard the clicking of keys in the background, like several mouthfuls of tiny teeth. “Never heard of her. She’s not on our list.”
“List?”
“A database we created. Missing women in central Ohio who fit the profile.”
“Profile of what?”
“Of our guy’s victims.”
“Which is?”
“Drug-addicted prostitutes in their twenties and thirties. Your person match up?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I said. “But her brother only reported her missing last week.”
“That explains it. We’re behind. There’s a lot of missing women. Have you talked to Larry Schwartzbaum, at CPD?”
I told him I’d left messages.
“He’s the guy you want. So what do you need to know?”
“I’m not sure. Anything classified you can tell me about the killer?”
“Like what?”
“Like, I won’t know until you tell me. Like stuff the cops haven’t released. It’s worth lunch. Name your place.”
“Pretty busy. Rain check, OK?”
“OK,” I said, but I’d detected something besides busyness in his voice, and I was pretty sure I knew what it was. “Anything you can tell me over the phone?”
“Maybe one thing. I don’t know how much it’s worth. Except it’s mine alone. I see it anywhere, I know it came from you, and this is the last time we talk.”
I laughed, but he didn’t laugh back. After a second, I said, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll also keep you in mind if Jessica turns into a story.”
“Sure you will. So you’re not going to burn me?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout.”
“I swear on a stack of Bibles.”
He snorted. “I’ll go with the first one. OK. Ever heard of a band called Gätling Gün?”
“Sure. From the eighties. The whole ‘umlaut rock’ thing. I had a couple albums. Why?”
“You know that song ‘Pleasure Prince’?”
“Yeah.” Memories surfaced of the raunchy song, background music to several of my romantic encounters as a teen. “What’s it got to do with anything?”
“There’s a girl, LaVonne Brown. The cops are pretty sure she survived this guy. Sometime in early July, between Natasha Rumsey and Lisa Washington. He picked her up late one night off Bryden Road, wouldn’t say where he was going. They’d made a couple of turns when she started to get nervous and tried to back out. Police think he has a lair someplace and Brown realized they were headed that way.”
“A lair?”
“Someplace he takes them first. Maybe keeps them there alive, a day or two, before he strangles them.”
“I take it she didn’t figure out where.”
“Sold to the private eye on a fool’s errand. Anyway, he pulls around the corner, drives into an alley, drags her out of the car, grabs a rope of some kind, and starts choking her. The whole time he’s singing something in this low voice. She’s blacking out when a dog wanders by and starts barking and the guy gets scared. He punches her in the face, gets back in the car, and drives off.”
“She get a look at him?”
“Vague description. White, thick glasses, mustache, ball cap. Cops figured he’s lost the mustache by now.”
I thought of Mr. Patel and his parole officer. Normal looking.
“Singing something,” I said. “‘Pleasure Prince’?”
“You got it.”
I recalled the song’s chorus: Love my touch, love my push, love my Pleasure Prince. Things I had done listening to the song were not my finest moments.
“Creepy,” I said.
“No shit. No one knows if he sings it every time, mainly because there haven’t been any other survivors. He’s been thorough that way. Anyway, homicide desk code-named him Prince, just for yuks.”
“So why haven’t you reported this? The singing.”
“Cops asked me not to.”
“And you agreed?”
“They made a good case. They’re worried it could taint the investigation. Normally, I’d say screw it. If the guy was wearing a Walking Dead T-shirt, let’s put it out there. Nine times out of ten his girlfriend finds the shirt crumpled in the closet, sneaks around the corner to call 911, and they’ve got their man. But this is different. The song makes it ripe for copycatters, which is just what they need right now. Couple johns try to be funny, start