by R.J. Ellory
Costello shook his head. ′No, she actually met someone and got married, moved to Boston. I don′t speak to her anymore. She was one of the lucky ones.′
′How so?′
′She got through it. She dealt with whatever she had to and she was able to start another life. I think she even had children, you know?′
′Let′s go inside,′ Costello suggested. ′Let′s go get a cup of coffee or something. I can imagine that this is one of those unofficially official conversations, and if I tell you I have to go home then you′re not going to be happy.′
′I do need to speak to you, Mr Costello,′ Irving said. ′I think what you′re doing is important, and I want to know everything that you′ve learned.′
Costello smiled. ′I′m flattered, Detective Irving, but I think you might be disappointed with what I know.′
They walked a block, found a diner on 38th and Tenth. Costello wanted black, no sugar. Irving asked for decaf.
′I don′t sleep so good as it is,′ he told Costello. ′Coffee makes it worse.′
They sat for a while in silence, and then Costello asked Irving what he felt would happen with his case.
′It might not be my case tomorrow,′ Irving said.
′How so?′
′Because you have five different precincts involved, and each precinct has a captain, and each captain has a workload and a number of resources, and the Chief of Police will assign as he sees fit. The whole thing may be turned over to someone else entirely.′
′But for now?′ Costello asked.
′For now? Well, to tell you the truth, everyone involved in this is very interested in who you are, Mr Costello . . . and who your group is, and what they might have to do with this thing.′
′Which is understandable,′ Costello replied, ′but I can assure you that no-one in the group has any direct connection with any of these murders, and their interest is purely academic.′
Irving smiled. ′You know that, Mr Costello, and I might be prepared to accept that, but—′
Costello raised his hand and Irving fell silent.
′There are a great many reasons for doing what we do,′ Costello said. ′The common denominator has something to do with our willingness to face what frightens us. It′s not complicated, and it certainly isn′t a new idea. We talk about dying, and we talk about people who are capable of killing other people, and sometimes people talk about their nightmares, you know? That′s what they do, and when they get over their initial anger and fear they start to look outwards a little . . . to consider the possibility that there might be a life beyond what they′ve experienced. Like people who are released from prison or who have been tortured, or been through war . . . something like that. After something like that it feels for a while as if that′s all there is to your life, and when you speak to other people who′ve gone through the same things, well, then you start to think that maybe there is something beyond it.′ He smiled wistfully. ′You′re basically talking about a group of people, each of whom believe that they should be dead, but they′re not . . . and that′s a hard thing to deal with.′
′I get all that,′ Irving said, ′but where does the amateur detective stuff come into it? Where does that figure into the equation?′
′Don′t make something out of nothing,′ Costello replied. ′That′s a job for the newspapers, not the police.′ He smiled at his own sarcasm. ′This area of analysis is my interest, predominantly at least, but there′s someone else there, someone who has—′ He paused, picked up his coffee cup, drank some, set it back on the saucer. ′An acquaintance of mine. He has a head for dates and times and places, you know? He remembers things.′
′He′s the one who made the connections between—′
Costello nodded.
′And where does he think this thing will go now?′ Irving asked.
′Where does he think it will go? Jesus, we′re talking about people who have an interest in serial murders, not a spiritualist group.′
Irving smiled, and neither spoke for some moments.
′So tell me something, Detective Irving,′ Costello said. ′Do you have anything on this guy at all? Do you have any idea of where this thing is going?′
Irving shook his head. ′I can′t answer that. I can′t talk about an ongoing investigation.′
′But you already are.′
′But I′m not telling you anything you don′t already know—′
′So we make a deal, Detective.′
Irving raised his eyebrows.
′You tell me something I don′t already know, and I′ll tell you something in return.′
Irving thought of his discussion with Karen Langley. He leaned back in his chair, looked out the window, noticed a man across the street struggling with an inside-out umbrella and realized that it was raining. Cars passed, a taxicab, a bus, and all of it like a scene from a movie. The world was out there, and they knew nothing of what was happening.
′That′s a potentially compromising situation,′ Irving said, almost to himself.
′Trust is everything, Detective,′ Costello replied.
′You work for a newspaper.′
′And you work for the New York Police Department.′
Irving smiled. ′Are you saying that the police are untrustworthy?′
′Not all, no.′
′But some.′
′Of course . . .′ Costello′s comment was left hanging.
′So what do you want to know?′ Irving asked.
′Something that′s not in the newspaper reports, that I wouldn′t know from listening to police scanners. A detail. An aspect of personality. A fact that - to you - seems important to this case.′
′And in return?′
′I′ll tell you something that you don′t already know.′
′That has some bearing on this case?′
Costello nodded.
′And this is a firm agreement, not some bullshit game?′
′We′re talking about peoples′ lives—′
′There are no witnesses to this conversation,′ Irving said. He reached forward suddenly, unexpectedly, and grabbed Costello′s hand. Costello pulled back instinctively, but Irving′s grip was firm and unrelenting. Within a moment Irving had run his hand over both of Costello′s shoulders, down his chest, beneath each arm, and then he released him.
′What?′ Costello asked. ′You think I might be recording this conversation? ′
′I am a New York police detective,′ Irving said. ′I′ve been in the police department for twenty years. I became a detective in 1997, Mr Costello, and I′ve worked in Vice, in Narcotics, in Homicide. I have seen more dead bodies than you could possibly imagine, and I′m not talking about websites and newspaper pictures. I′m not talking about some escapist pastime that makes people feel like they understand what being a police officer is all about . . . I′m talking about actual first-hand, up-close-and-personal material witness to the worst that people can do to one another. You understand me?′
Costello opened his mouth to speak.
′I′m not done yet, Mr Costello. You wrote an article. Okay, it didn′t wind up in the paper, but it could have done. You put two and two together on some murders that happened in the last few weeks. You pieced it all together. You made the New York Police Department look like a bunch of dumb motherfuckers who struggle to tie their own shoelaces. I go to my office and you have been so kind as to deliver some pages about a case that even I didn′t know of, and now we′re playing games here. Now we′re drinking coffee together and we′re playing games about what I might know and what you might be able to tell me. This is real life, Mr Costello, this is very, very real, and right now I don′t have a great deal of patience—′
′Enough,′ Costello interjected. ′That′s enough, Detective. I am not the guilty party here. I′m a concerned citizen, and nothing more. I′m a crime researcher for a newspaper and I know things - I′m supposed to know things. It′s what I do. I keep my eyes
and ears open, I make calls, look at the net. I verify facts and write them in such a way as to insure that the newspaper does not incur libel and slander judgements. Whatever you think is happening here is not happening. I am not your suspect, okay? I am trying to help you, not make your life more difficult. I′m not a stupid man, Detective, and if I was somehow involved in these murders I certainly would not be sending you material that would assist you to catch me—′
′You′d be surprised, Mr Costello, believe me. You would be surprised what some of these whackos will do to get attention.′
′So what did this particular whacko do, Detective? What did he do that no-one except you people know about?′
Irving hesitated, looked at the street once more. The rain appeared to have stopped, but the sidewalk and the street were varnished. Reflections from the streetlights and store signs, people alone and in couples, the sound of music filtering through from a bar someplace nearby . . . it all gave the impression that here was a regular city, a safe place to live, a place where people could get on with their lives, unconcerned for their own safety. Not so. Never had been, not as long as Irving had been alive, and the way things were going he believed it never would be.
′Detective?′
Irving looked back at John Costello. He dared not trust the man. No-one could be trusted. Not completely.
′You know something that will help us?′ Irving asked.
′I know of an avenue that you could take that might result in some progress,′ Costello replied.
′That doesn′t sound very positive.′
′Nothing is positive, Detective, you know that as well as I.′
′And what do you want from me?′
′Something, anything,′ Costello said. ′A single fact . . . something I don′t already know.′
′And if I tell you something, what′s to prevent you telling me that you knew it already?′
Costello laughed. ′How is it to live your life with no trust, Detective?′
Irving looked right at him, and Costello did not look away. In that moment, for whatever reason, Irving allowed himself to believe that Costello was telling the truth.
′He sent a letter,′ Irving said. ′This morning . . . a letter to The New York Times.′
′What did it say?′ Costello asked.
′It wasn′t so much what he said, not the words. It was a letter that Arthur Shawcross wrote, but our friend wrote it in the Zodiac cipher.′
Costello′s intake of breath was audible. His eyes widened. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head. ′Like James Wolfe,′ he said quietly.
′How so?′
′He really wants us to get the connection. He′s performing for us, and he doesn′t want us to miss any of it. He kills someone like a previous victim, but he′s worried that we won′t put two and two together.′
′So now I′ve told you something,′ Irving said.
Costello was nodding, still thinking. ′You wonder if it′s a message?′ he asked.
′What?′
′The fact that he sent the letter in the Zodiac cipher?′
′About his next victim?′
′Right,′ Costello said. ′That his next victim will be in the style of the Zodiac.′
′Who the fuck knows,′ Irving said. ′Right now I have to work through every known serial killer for the last fifty years and tabulate every victim′s date of death between now and Christmas.′
′You know that the Zodiac had only six confirmed victims?′
′So I′ve been told.′
′And you′d have to look at those that occurred only on specific dates, right?′
′Right.′
Costello took a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket. ′So who do we have?′ he asked himself. ′September 27th, 1969 we had Bryan Hartnell and Cecelia Shepard, both of them stabbed at Lake Berryessa. He survived. She did not. October 11th ′69 we had Paul Stine shot in San Francisco. 26th September 1970 we had Donna Lass in Nevada, except they never found her . . . September 29th, 1974, Donna Braun strangled in Monterey. Lastly we have Susan Dye strangled in Santa Rosa on October 16th, 1975. Of those only Hartnell, Shepard and Stine were actually verified as Zodiac victims. Hartnell survived—′
′You should write him,′ Irving said. ′Ask him to come join your group.′
Costello didn′t acknowledge Irving′s sarcasm.
′So if he does a Zodiac killing you′re looking for a murder that will happen on the 26th, 27th or 29th of this month, or he could wait until the 11th or 16th of October.′
′That′s if he does the Zodiac.′
′Right,′ Costello said. ′That′s if he does the Zodiac, and that′s if he chooses to replicate the unconfirmed killings. If he goes for the only known Zodiac victim then it′s Hartnell and Shepherd on the 27th.′
′And if he doesn′t?′
′Then you have to keep your eyes and ears open, because you start to factor in about two hundred serial murders a year spanning fifty years, then every day is going to be the anniversary of someone′s death.′
′Reassuring.′
Costello closed his notebook, put it back in his pocket.
′And now you,′ Irving said. ′Now you tell me something I don′t already know?′
′There is a subculture, a group of people who collect artifacts,′ Costello said. ′Artifacts from serial murders.′
′I know about this shit,′ Irving said.
′No you don′t,′ Costello said. ′Not these collectors. These aren′t your crazies, the ones who sell crime scene pictures and tee-shirts with blood-stains on. I′m talking about serious people, people with a great deal of money. The sort that will find you a snuff movie and it′s the real thing.′
′And what have these people got to do with what′s going on?′
′You should talk to them,′ Costello said. ′There′s a chance - at least I think there′s a chance - that your man is one of these people, or has come into contact with these people in an effort to better understand a particular murder.′
′This is supposition,′ Irving said. ′We made an agreement here . . . we made an agreement that you would tell me something I don′t already know—′
′I have a name for you,′ Costello said. ′Leonard Beck.′
′And who the hell is he?′
′Someone I think might be able to help you more than you realize.′
′And where would I find this Leonard Beck?′
′In the phone book, Detective . . . right there in the phone book. Far as I know he now lives in Manhattan, and he′ll be the only one listed.′
′That′s it?′
′That′s it, Detective.′
′And now I have two questions for you, Mr Costello.′
Costello raised his eyebrows.
′Was Mia Grant the first one?′
′I think she was, yes.′
′Why? How can you be so sure that this hasn′t been going on for years?′
′I can′t. Hell, how can any of us be sure about anything. I have . . .′ Costello paused for a moment. ′This has been an area of interest for some time.′
′Serial murders.′
′Murderers. It′s not what they do, but why they do it. It′s the situational dynamics. The way things come together to bring someone to the point where they believe that killing another human being, someone they don′t even know, appears to be a rational act, a solution to something.′
′Not to a problem that you or I would consider a problem.′
′No, of course not. You can′t rationalize an irrationality. We′re not talking about people who follow the accepted lines of thought and action, are we? We′re talking about people who have long since left behind whatever passes for normality.′
′And what problem does this solve for you, Mr Costello?′
′Problem?′ Costello shook his head. ′I consider myself an academic, Detective Irving, that′s all. If you think I′m trying to exorcise some
demon from the past then you′re wrong. I was attacked by someone who had no reason to attack me. He tried to kill us both, but he only killed the girl I was with at the time. She was seventeen years old, and after I recovered from the physical injury I had to deal with the mental and emotional effect of what happened.′
′And you dealt with that how?′
′I′ve read a lot of books, Detective. Books about psychology, psychiatry, psychoanalysis, all manner of things, and none of them explain the way a human being works. Not with any real certainty, and not with any real appreciation of the degree to which an individual can understand himself. I feel I′ve reached a level of understanding about myself that makes it possible to go on living life without dragging the weight of the past along with me. I have my moments . . .′ Costello smiled privately. ′I have my idiosyncrasies. I′m not in a relationship with anyone, and to tell you the truth I don′t know that I ever will be.′ He paused a moment. ′I count things—′
Irving looked at him, quizzical.
′What′s your habit, Detective? What is it that you do that no-one really knows about? Do you avoid cracks in the sidewalk, or check the back door is locked three times before you leave the house?′
Irving laughed. ′I read the newspaper backwards . . . I don′t mean actually reading stuff backwards, but I start at the back of the paper and work toward the front page.′
′Why? That makes no sense at all.′
Irving shrugged. ′God, I don′t know, it was something my father did. Maybe I figured that′s what he was doing, you know? Like he′d read the sports page, then the funnies and the horoscopes, then whatever news items he was interested in. I always had the idea that he was reading the paper backwards.′
′You were close?′
′Not particularly no . . . I think I was a general disappointment to him.′
′No brothers and sisters?′
′No, just me.′
′And were you a disappointment?′
′I hope not.′
′So maybe people have these little quirks and idiosyncrasies that they pick up from other people because it makes them feel safe . . . gives them an anchor to something, you know?′
′What is this?′ Irving asked. ′All of a sudden I′m in therapy?′