Miami, It's Murder by Edna Buchanan Read Free Book Online

had warned that publicity would tip off the suspect. “The rapist will become more cautious, change his turf, alter his MO, making it tougher to catch him,” the lieutenant had insisted.
    That thinking always confounded me. A man out there raping and robbing must assume that the cops want a word with him. Besides, they had been unable to stop him. How many big-city bathrooms could a handful of cops keep under surveillance? How many other women would fall victim? News coverage might flush him out or provide valuable new information. The rapist’s wife, mother, or lover, a neighbor, co-worker, or employer might grow suspicious, I argued, and turn him in. If nothing else, it would at least alert potential victims to better protect themselves.
    The first story dubbed him the Downtown Rapist. He was not scared off. The man either didn’t read the newspaper or didn’t give a damn. He either had chutzpah or was powerless to control the demons that drove him.
    I fumbled with the key, suddenly aware of the darkness around my front door. Unsnapping Bitsy’s leash, I walked into the kitchen and found that Billy Boots had upchucked on the floor.
    â€œWhat did you expect after pigging out on that dog food? I told you it wasn’t good for you.” I mopped up the mess with a paper towel, then picked up my notebook and settled back into my favorite stuffed chair next to the telephone.
    What I needed was a news peg. I pushed number five on the automatic dialer. I listened to it ring, wondering if perhaps my mother was right. Normal people program the numbers of best friends, lovers, close relatives, and maybe their favorite boutiques or pizza delivery chains into their telephones. Mine connects me to the homicide bureaus of two police departments, the morgue, the fire alarm office, the rape squad, the police public information office, the County Hospital emergency room, the city desk, and Lottie.
    Harry Arroyo answered. “Hey, Harry, this is Britt Montero, from the News .”
    â€œNo shit. I know who you are and where you’re from.” He sounded sullen, as I had expected.
    â€œAnything new on the Downtown Rapist?”
    â€œNot for publication.”
    I pretended not to hear. “Do you have a composite yet? What about a psychological profile?”
    He answered with a question. “Any idea how much grief you’ve caused us?”
    I hate that. “What do you mean, Harry?”
    â€œTV is busting our balls! The Downtown Development Association is mad as hell.”
    Each of the three new rapes since the original story had been reported in increasingly hysterical tones on TV.
    â€œThe Chamber of Commerce is calling the chief, he’s busting the lieutenant’s chops, and the lieutenant is busting ours. Feminist groups are hassling the mayor—and now you call, all sweet and innocent, and ask what’s going on. You know what’s going on, for Christ’s sake; you started it!”
    â€œHarry, nobody wants to see you catch this guy more than I do.”
    â€œOh, sure. Bet you’d love to see him locked up. How would you sell papers then?”
    â€œThis isn’t about selling newspapers, Harry. You know that.” I tried to sound sincere and helpful. “Have you checked to see if maybe the same guy worked in more than one of those buildings?”
    He sighed and replied grudgingly. “We’re going through the personnel records now.”
    â€œAnything?”
    â€œIt’s not easy. Each building has a maintenance staff or a hired cleaning crew. Office cleaners come and go; records on those kinds of low-paying jobs aren’t kept so good. Then each office has its own employees. They’ve got runners, messengers, delivery men, Fed Ex, UPS, all kinds of people coming and going.” The anger had faded from his voice, replaced by the weariness of a frustrated cop at a dead end.
    â€œOdd that nobody but the victims has seen him. Must