Chapter 80
THIS WAS NO LAUGHING MATTER, though, and Michael Sullivan quickly made his way back to where he’d parked on Q Street. Actually, what had happened was just about the worst development he could imagine. Nothing much seemed to be going his way lately.
He sat and calmly pondered the unfortunate situation in the front seat of his Cadillac.
He thought about the likely “suspects,” about the woman who must have told tales out of school about him. Possibly given the police a description. He considered that he was being attacked from a couple of sides at once, by the Washington police and the Mafia. What to do, what to do?
When a partial solution came, it was satisfying and even exhilarating, because it felt like a new game to him. Another twist of the dial.
The DC police thought that they knew what he looked like, which could be serious trouble but might also make them sloppy and even overconfident.
Mistake.
Theirs.
Especially if he made the proper countermoves right now, which he definitely planned to do. But what, exactly, were those defensive actions he needed to take?
The first step took him to Wisconsin Avenue, near Blues Alley—right where he remembered the small shop to be. A barber named Rudy had a chair open for him in midafternoon, so Sullivan settled in for a haircut and shave.
It was relaxing and mildly enjoyable actually, wondering what he’d look like afterward, whether he’d like the new him.
Another ten to twelve minutes and the deed was done. Take off the bandages, Dr. Frankenstein. The smallish, rotund barber seemed pleased with himself.
If you messed up, you’re dead. I’m not kidding, Rudy, the Butcher thought to himself. I’ll cut you to ribbons with your own straight razor. See what the Washington Post has to say about that!
But, hey! “Not so bad. I sort of like it. Think I look a little like Bono.”
“Sonny and Cher—that Bono?” asked Rudy the Dense. “I don’t know about that, mister. I think you better lookin’ than Sonny Bono. He’s dead, you know?”
“Whatever,” said Sullivan, and paid his tab, gave the barber a tip, and got the hell out of there.
Next, he drove over to the Capitol Hill neighborhood in DC.
He’d always liked the area, found it a turn-on. Most people’s image of the Capitol was the graceful steps and terraces of the west facade. But on the east side, behind the Capitol and the Supreme Court and Library of Congress buildings, was a bustling residential neighborhood that he knew fairly well. I’ve passed this way before.
The Butcher walked through Lincoln Park, which had an exceptional view of the Capitol dome now that the leaves were falling away.
He smoked a cigarette and reviewed his plan in front of the somewhat bizarre Emancipation Memorial, which featured a slave breaking out of chains while Lincoln read the Emancipation Proclamation.
Lincoln, a good man by most accounts. Myself, a very bad man. Wonder how that happens? he wondered.
A few minutes later, he was breaking in to a house on C Street. He just knew this was the bitch who had talked about him. He felt it in his bones, in his blood. And soon, he’d know for sure.
He found Mena Sunderland tucked away in her adorable little kitchen. She was dressed in jeans, an immaculate white tee, scuffed-up clogs, making pasta for one while she sipped a glass of red wine. Cute as a button, he thought to himself.
“Did you miss me, Mena? I missed you. And you know what? I almost forgot how pretty you are.”
But I won’t forget you again, darling girl. I brought a camera to take your picture this time. You’re going to be in my prize photo collection after all. Oh, yes you are!
And he gave her the first cut with his scalpel.
Chapter 81
I WAS STILL INSIDE THE CHURCH when my cell phone went off, and it was trouble near the Capitol. I said a quick prayer for whoever was in jeopardy, and a prayer that we would catch the killer-rapist soon. Then I left St. Anthony’s on the run.
Sampson and I rushed to the neighborhood behind the Capitol building in his car with the siren blaring, lights flashing on the rooftop. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung up everywhere by the time we arrived. The scene, the backdrop of important government buildings, couldn’t have been more dramatic, I thought, as Sampson and I hurried up the four stone front steps of a brownstone.
Is he putting on a show for us? Is he doing it on purpose? Or did it just happen this way?