Ricky Caputo, Serial Killer Day***by Frank Hickey "Mark, I got new leads on my serial killer case, Ricardo Caputo," I say. "Wanna check them out?" "Anytime, Hickster," Mark Baldessarre chirps. Mark would die next month. Bearded, commanding and learned, he pierces the Manhattan District Attorney's Investigation Bureau with grace. Standing strong and witty, he laughs at all the silliness of life. "You and the other Irishers around here want to punish Caputo for enjoying sex without holy marriage," he proclaims "And for not being Irish. Not part of your Budweiser tribe." After Mark dies, I would try to keep him alive by writing. Grieving, I created the character of Dancing Max Royster, the world's only ballroom dancing detective. Nine published Dancing Max Royster books followed. Today, by accident, I'm carrying the Caputo case. I have just three years as a cop. Often, like today, I have no idea what to do. Our fourth stop is a huge office building on Broadway. The secretary scans our gold-and-blue police shields and calls his boss. The boss, Mr. K. copies our names, shield numbers and command. Politely, he seems to expect corruption. He calls our office to check. This feels unusual to me. My nerves start singing. "What brings you?" he asks, stroking his short executive beard. "You have a janitor here," I say. "Ricardo Diaz." "And?" he prompts. "Our Bureau has an interest in him," I say, following procedure. "That's no answer, Hickster," Mark hisses. "That's just more government linoleum. Stating nothing, meaning nothing." I change tack. "We're looking for a serial killer, Ricardo Caputo," I say. "Killed at least six women." The boss nods. He still mistrusts us. His diploma from Deerfield Academy hangs on the wall. I want his trust. "You went to Deerfield?" I ask. He nods his surprise. "I graduated Canterbury," I say. "It was the wrong elite prep-school for me." He looks more surprised. "Do you know George M?" he asks.(I have ommitted the last name, to save my friend George embarrassment.) "Yup," I say. "For years. His family's from Lebanon.". It works. He relaxes. The prep-school world smiles. "This is our file on Mr. Diaz," he says. The file shocks me. I start shaking. My voice climbs. I'm a naive rookie, lost among professionals. "These ID cards you copied are fake,"I say. "Times Square bogus cards. Anyone can buy them." "And you oughta know," Mark whispers. "This date of birth is the same as our subject, the killer," I say. "Your janitor could be our killer. Where is this janitor from?" "Argentina," he says. "The boss is Argentinian." "So is Caputo," I say. "He only hires Argentinians," Mr. K. says. "May I call downstairs and see if Diaz is working today?" "Do you usually do that?" I ask. "No, never." "Then, please, don't do it today," I say. "Oh, let him call, Hickster," Mark advises. "What are they gonna say, 'Some weird guy from Canterbury is asking about you'?" Mr. K. rises and opens the door to the dark stairway. "Our power downstairs is out," he says. "Just happened at three." "And Diaz is down there?" I ask. "In the dark?". (To Be Continued). ***Frank Hickey *** Frank became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net