Body Dump by Fred Rosen Page B

contain him. He turned the key, the engine came to life and he immediately shifted gears and backed the car down the driveway. He executed a neat turn into the middle of the street, straightened his wheels, shifted again and gunned the motor. The car shot forward.
    Siegrist made sure that Mannain, who was driving, stayed back at least one car length so the suspect would not get suspicious. They followed him to the Hudson Psychiatric Institute, watching as he pulled up the long, sloping driveway, and let his mother off at the top. Traveling back down, Siegrist and Mannain continued to follow as Francois made his left turn back toward town. They were just a few blocks away from the police station in one direction, and Main Street in the other. Knowing Francois’s predilection for prostitutes, they knew he was headed for Main.
    “Pull up behind him,” Siegrist told Mannain.
    A few minutes later, they were lounging at a light, ready for it to turn green. Slowly, methodically, Bill Siegrist uncorked his big frame from his car and walked up slowly to Francois’s window. It was already rolled down. Siegrist leaned in. The first thing Francois eyed was the shiny lieutenant’s badge in Siegrist’s hand.
    “Hi, Kendall. My name is Lieutenant Siegrist.”
    “Hello.”
    The cop ignored the greeting, but remained polite.
    “Would you mind following me into headquarters? There’s some questions I’d like to ask you.”
    “Not a problem, Lieutenant,” Francois answered politely.
    “Just follow me in,” said Siegrist as he walked back to his car. He found it curious that Francois never once asked why.
    For his part, Francois had to be wondering why he was being asked to come into the police station. What kinds of questions were the cops interested in asking? What answers were they looking for? Was he accused of having committed a crime?
    Francois never let on what he was thinking. He just said nothing and allowed himself to be brought in. It was a curious reaction: meek, compliant, from a man suspected of serial murder.
    Dutifully, Francois followed the unmarked car down Main Street, until they were finally at the police station. Siegrist pulled around back to the police lot on the south side of the building. He parked in one of the open spaces near what looked like a loading dock. Francois did the same.
    Siegrist got out, and with Mannain on one side and him on the other, escorted Francois into the station. Since the man wasn’t any more so a suspect in the disappearances than anyone else, he was not handcuffed. Since he had not yet been asked any questions about the women, he was not given his Miranda warning. That would come later; no sense in scaring the guy, but from the looks of how calm Francois was, it didn’t look like much affected him. The guy acted like he had ice water in his veins.
    Had Siegrist been more aware of the patterns of serial killers, he would have known that some act almost meekly at times. That is, until their killing instincts take over and they become insatiable in their desire to shed a victim’s blood.
    It had taken a while, over a year, but the cops finally had Kendall Francois in the conference room at police headquarters. Ordinarily, a suspect being interrogated was brought to one of the precinct’s drab, gray interview rooms. Siegrist, though, had a specific reason for using the conference room.
    “After you,” said Siegrist, holding open the door for Francois, who walked in with a preternatural calm for somebody about to be interrogated about a series of disappearances. Nothing had been said about them yet. Francois looked around the room. He did not know it, but it had been specially decorated just for him.
    Siegrist had gotten to headquarters early that morning and gone to work. He had pictures of the victims placed on one wall. On the other was a picture of Francois’s Fulton Street house. A number of pictures, in fact, so Francois would know the cops had been shadowing him. As he