The Broken Window

area. “I’m not here about any letters, Mr. Jorgensen. I just have some questions. I won’t take much of your time.”
    He gestured her toward the gamy couch and sat down on a wobbly chair at the desk. As if he couldn’t help himself he turned to the book and with a razor knife cut a piece off the spine. He handled the knife expertly, fast and sure. Sachs was glad the desk was between them and her gun unobstructed.
    “Mr. Jorgensen, I’m here about a crime that was committed this morning.”
    “Ah, sure, of course.” Lips pursing, he glanced at Sachs again and his expression was clear: resignation and disgust. “And what was I supposed to have done this time?”
    This time?
    “The crime was a rape and murder. But we know you weren’t involved. You were here.”
    A cruel grin. “Ah, keeping track of me. Sure.” Then a grimace. “Goddamnit.” This was in response to something he found, or didn’t find, in the bit of book spine he was dissecting. He tossed it into the trash. Sachs noticed half-open garbage bags containing remnants of clothes, books, newspapers and small boxes that had also been cut apart. Then she glanced into the larger microwave and saw that it contained a book.
    Germ phobic, she supposed.
    He noticed her gaze. “Microwaving’s the best way to destroy them.”
    “Bacteria? Viruses?”
    He laughed at the question as if she were joking. He nodded at the volume in front of him. “But sometimes they’re really hard to find. You have to, though. You need to see what the enemy looks like.” Now a nod at the microwave. “And pretty soon they’ll startmaking ones that you can’t even nuke. Ah, you better believe it.”
    They . . . them . . . Sachs had been a beat cop in the Patrol Division for some years—a portable, they were called in cop slang. She’d worked Times Square back when it was, well, Times Square, before the place became Disneyland North. Patrolwoman Sachs had had lots of experience with the homeless and emotionally disturbed. She recognized signs of paranoid personality, maybe even schizophrenia.
    “Do you know a DeLeon Williams?”
    “No.”
    She offered the names of the other victims and fall guys, including Rhyme’s cousin.
    “No, never heard of any of them.” He seemed to be answering truthfully. The book took all his attention for a long thirty seconds. He removed a page and held it up, grimacing again. He pitched it out.
    “Mr. Jorgensen, this room number was found on a note near the crime scene today.”
    The hand with the knife froze. He looked at her with scary, burning eyes. Breathlessly he asked, “ Where ? Where the hell did you find it?”
    “In a trash bin in Brooklyn. It was stuck to some evidence. It’s possible this killer discarded it.”
    In a ghastly whisper he asked, “You have a name? What does he look like? Tell me!” He half rose and his face grew bright red. His lips trembled.
    “Take it easy, Mr. Jorgensen. Calm down. We’re not positive he’s the one who left the note.”
    “Oh, he’s the one. You bet he is. That motherfucker!” He leaned forward. “You have a name ?”
    “No.”
    “Tell me, goddamnit! Do something for me for a change. Not to me!”
    She said firmly, “If I can help you, I will. But you have to stay calm. Who are you talking about?”
    He dropped the knife and sat back, shoulders slumped. A bitter smile spread across his face. “Who? Who? Why, God, of course.”
    “God?”
    “And I’m Job. You know Job? The innocent man God tormented. All the trials he inflicted? That’s nothing compared to what I’ve been through. . . . Oh, it’s him. He found out where I am now and wrote it down on that note of yours. I thought I’d escaped. But he’s got me again.”
    Sachs thought she saw tears. She asked, “What’s this all about? Please, tell me.”
    Jorgensen rubbed his face. “Okay . . . A few years ago I was a practicing doctor, lived in Connecticut. Had a wife and two wonderful children. Money in the bank, retirement plan, vacation house. A comfortable life. I was happy. But then a strange thing happened. No big deal, not at first. I applied for a new credit card—to get miles in my frequent-flier program. I was making three hundred thousand a year. I’d never missed a credit card or mortgage payment in my life. But I was rejected. Some mistake, I thought. But the company said that I was a credit risk since I’d moved three times in the past six months. Only I hadn’t moved at all.