by R.J. Ellory
Worst thing of all, it seemed, was his desire to let go.
THIRTY-FOUR
By ten they knew her name.
And they broke the code, the symbols written on the floor in the girl′s blood.
She was twenty-four years old, she worked in a record store downtown. No missing persons report had been filed. The people in the store would later give statements. We just figured she didn′t like the job . . . She′d only been here a couple of weeks.
New York - a city big enough to lose people without effort. You were someone on the sidewalk, forgotten by the time you crossed at the corner.
Laura Margaret Cassidy.
On the floor it said Oakland 9472 Bob Hall Starr was a pussy.
Whoever had written the message had used a combination of ciphers taken from the Zodiac letters - those to the Vallejo Times-Herald, the San Francisco Examiner and the Chronicle. On the 4th of September 1972 in Oakland, California, a twenty-four-year-old girl called Alexandra Clery was found naked and bound, having been beaten to death. Clery was one of nine possible Zodiac victims from that time period - Betty Cloer, Linda Ohlig, Susan McLaughlin, Yvonne Quilantang, Cathy Fechtel, Michael Shane, Donna Marie Braun and Susan Dye. The majority of the victims had been murdered around the Summer, Winter and Fall Solstices, Linda Ohlig six days after the Vernal Equinox. Irving, having recognized the style of cipher left on the apartment floor, took no time at all to determine the connection between what they had and what had occurred thirty-four years before. He also found a reference, along with one other name, to Bob Hall Starr.
Hal Gerrard and Jeff Turner both confirmed that the Montgomery Street victim′s date of death - ascertained from preliminary examination, the state of decomposition - could very well have been twelve days earlier. The 4th of September. The Anniversary Man had given them a Zodiac killing, but they hadn′t known.
Laura Cassidy was taken to the coroner′s department for autopsy. Jeff Turner and his crew of CSAs started in on the apartment.
Irving, meeting with Farraday back at the Fourth, made his thoughts known.
′I don′t think the apartment will give us anything.′
′I think you′re probably right,′ Farraday said. ′One hope is that she was killed there . . . possibility that he may have left something. If she was dumped there post mortem, then we may get nothing without the primary.′ He rose from his chair and walked to the window. He stood with his back to Irving. ′And Bob Hall Starr?′ he asked.
′Was a name, a pseudonym really, for the San Francisco PD′s favorite candidate.′
′For the Zodiac,′ Farraday said matter-of-factly.
′Yes,′ Irving replied.
′And we′re assuming that there is no possibility that the Zodiac is still alive.′ Farraday turned back, sat on the edge of the sill with his hands in his pockets.
′Assuming, yes.′
′So what do you conclude now?′
′That he might be trying to prove he′s better than all of them. Just my opinion . . . but that′s the conclusion we′ve come to—′
′We?′ Farraday said. ′Who is we exactly?′
Irving realized the slip, cursed himself. He looked away, toward the wall where Farraday′s citations, commendations, certificates of service and framed photos hung. He didn′t look at them directly, but into the vague middle ground between. For a moment Irving was gone. He was tired and confused, disillusioned, disappointed, disheartened, angry, frustrated. He was also determined not to be made the scapegoat for whatever shit-storm of questions Farraday might find himself unable to answer. This was not the way it was supposed to be. This was not the way he had intended his life to go—
′Ray?′
Irving snapped to. He looked back at Farraday. ′I had some external assistance with a couple of aspects of this . . . well, not so much assistance really, more like some input.′
′Input?′
′The guy that researched the City Herald article . . . the one that put the connections together.′
Farraday didn′t speak for a moment. He walked back to his desk and sat down. He seemed pensive, but there was something in his expression that suggested a difficulty in defining his own reaction.
′This is not good,′ he said eventually. ′This is not the sort of external input that will read well . . .′
Irving leaned forward. ′Captain? Can we look at this in another light for just a moment?′
Farraday raised his eyebrows.
Irving took his career in his hands. ′Away from the Mayor and the Chief. Let′s forget about the election, forget about who might or might not get a job next year. Can we just look at this from the simple perspective of an ongoing homicide investigation?′
′I trust that is the way you have been looking at it, Ray—′
′I have yes, but I don′t know that anyone else has . . . at least not completely.′
′Explain.′
′Pulling back on resources first of all. I get two uniforms for only a couple of hours to help sort out the paperwork on more than half a dozen murder investigations. I get half an office to work in, no assistant investigator, and I get word that I can′t have anyone because everyone is needed out on the street to make things look good for the Mayor and the Chief of Police—′
Farraday raised his hand. ′Enough already, Ray. I′ve got nine detectives, two of whom are on leave. That leaves me seven in all. You′re on this, the other six are handling everything else that comes through the precinct, and that doesn′t take into consideration the fact that two of our people are bolstering up the lines at the Eighth. We′ve got Captain Hughes getting the shit kicked out of him dealing with the homeland security people. We have the transit authority, airport security and the cab drivers′ strike, as well as this bullshit with events co-ordination for Thanksgiving—′
′So let me get some help,′ Irving interjected.
′Whaddya mean, let you get some help.′
′Let me get this guy over here—′
′What guy? The researcher guy? Jesus, Ray, are you out of your fucking mind? The Chief gets word that you′ve got a newspaper reporter working on an ongoing police—′
′He′s not a newspaper reporter, he′s a researcher, and as far as I can tell he knows more about this serial killer shit than anyone I′ve ever met, and he′s not a psych, and he′s not some narrow-minded bureaucratic fuck from the FBI. Okay, so he might have his quirks and idiosyncrasies—′
′What the fuck is that supposed to mean?′
Irving knew he was on thin ice, but he didn′t care. Right now he didn′t see how it could get much worse than it already was.
′We have someone here with a brain the size of a fucking planet who seems to have dedicated the last twenty years of his life to figuring out all the connections between God only knows how many serial killings, and he′s offered his help. He wants to help. We know that because he calls up and tells me who these killings are replicas of. He finds stuff on the internet and he sends it over here to me—′
′And he could be your number one fucking suspect by the sound of it.′
′All the more reason to have him close, have him right where we want him, and in the meantime we use whatever information and input he can give us to work this thing. This is one almighty fucking nightmare, Captain, and I don′t know that anyone could do this thing alone. I need some help. He wouldn′t need paying, and if he had expenses I′ll cover them myself, and—′
Farraday was shaking his head. ′If this is done then it gets done by the book. He gets hired as a researcher. He gets a name, he gets a security clearance - to a point of course. He acts with us, not on our behalf. He does not represent the police department, he is employed in a consultational capacity by the police department, and he gets paid an agreed-upon hourly rate. There is no way in the fucking world that I am having some newspaper reporter write a story telling the world how this department is so understaffed and under-funded that it has to hire
outside unqualified help, and that their expenses have to be paid out of the pocket of one of the precinct′s homicide detectives.′ Farraday paused for a moment. ′You understand what I′m saying?′
′I do, yes . . . makes sense.′
Farraday stood up, went back to the window. He was quiet for some time. Every once in a while he shook his head. He seemed to be having a silent conversation with someone, explaining himself perhaps, justifying his actions. ′Okay, so speak to the guy,′ he eventually said. ′Find out what he thinks he can do to help you. If it′s worth it, then fine, get him in here and we′ll put him on the system. If he′s not, drop him and come see me, and we′ll talk about maybe getting someone to handle your phone and admin traffic and a uniform to do some legwork, okay?′
Irving rose from his seat.
′Okay?′ Farraday repeated. ′We understand one another, right, Ray?′
′Right, Captain,′ Irving replied. ′We understand one another.′
THIRTY-FIVE
′I have no idea,′ Karen Langley said.
I Irving shifted the phone from one ear to the other. ′You have no idea?′
′No, Ray, I have no idea.′ ′But you′ve worked with the guy for what? Eight, nine years?′ ′How many people do you work with that you know where they live, hey? He lives in New York somewhere, Ray, I don′t need to know precisely where. I′m sure his address is in the phone book. It′s certainly going to be with personnel or payroll.′
Irving was struggling with what she was saying. ′I don′t know, Karen . . . just seems strange that you′ve worked with a guy for all this time and you don′t know where he lives.′
′You gotta take into consideration the fact that he doesn′t want me to know where he lives.′
′Jesus,′ Irving said to himself. It was Sunday morning. He′d called Karen Langley on her cellphone. She was home, alone he assumed, and she had seemed pleased to hear his voice. Until he told her what he wanted, of course. And then she seemed businesslike, a little distant and matter-of-fact. What he′d suggested to Farraday - that Costello be employed to assist him - had seemed to make so much sense the night before. Emotions had been high, he had been afraid - a sense of disconnection, as if no-one in the world could ever hope to understand what he′d been feeling. Another victim. A Zodiac replica from the Anniversary Man. And a message. Bob Hall Starr was a pussy. It was a challenge. I am better than all of them. I am as good as it gets. I am so far ahead of you people you wouldn′t even see dust . . . even better than that because I don′t leave any dust for you to follow. Irving had recognized that in the message - the unspoken defiance, the invitation. Go for it, he was saying. Try your hand. It made sense to Irving, and in that moment he′d believed that John Costello, of all people, would perhaps be the only person who would appreciate what it meant.
Alongside this was another insidious supicion. Costello had given him Leonard Beck, Beck had given him Chaz Morrison, Morrison had given him Haynes, and Haynes had been a direct link to the dead girl in the apartment. Without these connections she would not yet have yet been found.
Irving wanted to believe that this result had come from his own persistence and hard work, but - yet again - these events seemed all too coincidental.
A fractured and restless night′s sleep behind him, viewing this thing in the cold light of day, it seemed to make no sense at all.
And Karen Langley . . . explaining to him that she had worked with Costello for so many years and didn′t know where he lived . . .
′What′s the problem, Ray? What is it that you′re trying to handle here?′ Irving realized he′d been silent for some moments. He′d closed his eyes, pretending perhaps that if he couldn′t see what was in front of him he could make-believe he was elsewhere.
′I need to go visit him.′
She hesitated for a second or two.
′What?′ Irving asked.
′That′s not going to happen.′
′What d′you mean, not going to happen?′
′You visiting John Costello. It′s not going to happen. So you find out
where he lives, look him up in the police computer or whatever? You have any idea how freaked out he′s gonna be if you just show up at his apartment?′
Irving didn′t let on that he had failed to find Costello′s address on any system. ′No, I don′t, but I′m beginning to wonder who the hell it is that you have working for you now.′
She did it again then - smiled as she spoke. ′What? You′re concerned about me?′
′Sure I am, sure I′m concerned.′
′Why? Why would that matter?′
′Because I like you. Because you′re a good person—′
′You didn′t call me,′ she said abruptly, and all of a sudden the conversation had changed direction without warning.
How was it that women always managed to do that . . .
′You what?′
′You didn′t call me. We went out last Wednesday, four days ago . . . you said you were gonna call me, and you didn′t.′
Irving was ready to hang up the phone. ′I′m sorry—Jesus, Karen, all of a sudden we′re talking about the fact that I didn′t call you?′
′Yes we are. You call me this morning, you say ′′Hi, how you doing?′′ That′s it. Nothing else. Then you wanna know if I can get you into John Costello′s apartment.′
′Are you pissed at me?′ Irving asked.
′Of course I′m pissed at you. For God′s sake, Ray, are you that fucking ignorant?′
′Okay, okay, Jesus, I′m sorry. I′ve been a bit preoccupied, okay? I′ve been a bit preoccupied with this thing. I have another dead girl on my hands, found late last night, and I′m trying to see some daylight through the fucking trees, and I spoke to my captain and told him that maybe there′s a guy that can help us—′
′You what?′
′I spoke to my captain . . . spoke to him about John. Said that I figured he might be able to help us on this.′
For a while she didn′t speak, and there was something about the way that she didn′t speak that made Irving relax. Why, he didn′t know, but the awkwardness between them seemed to dissolve without any further words.
′I′ll call him,′ she said. ′I have his number. I can′t give it to you because he asked me never to give it to anyone. But I will call him—′
′You have to understand, Karen—′
′That none of this is for publication, right?′
′Right.′
′So I′ll call him and call you back.′
′Thank you,′ Irving replied. ′And about not calling you? I am sorry, okay? I′d like to tell you that I thought about it a lot, but I didn′t. I thought about you, but I′ve been so damned busy with this thing—′
′It′s okay,′ she said, and there was an element of empathy in her voice. ′I understand. Now hang up and I′ll call him.′
′Thank you, Karen.′
The line went dead.
THIRTY-SIX
Irving went early to the Deli, took a table in back away from the Sunday lunch traffic.
Karen Langley had come back to him within minutes. Costello would speak with Irving, but he wanted Langley there, and not at his own apartment.
′Somewhere public he said,′ Langley told Irving.
′Jesus, Karen—′
′Ray?′
Irving fell silent.
′Don′t question it, okay? He says he′ll talk to you. Take what you′re given and be grateful.′
They arranged to meet at one. Irving made an effort to dress appropriately. A pair of black pants, still in the cleaner′s bag from months before, and a dark blue sport jacket. He ironed a white shirt, decided to forego a tie, and cleaned his dress-uniform shoes. He needed a haircut. He needed another suit. He needed a lot of things.
When he stood in front of the mirror in the hallway - the mirror Deborah insisted he put there so she could give herself a final once-over as she left the apartment - he w
ondered if he was making the effort in order to look like the professional he was supposed to be, or if he was doing it for Karen Langley. It was something of both, he decided. This case, perhaps more than any of his career, was demanding of his most accurate attention. It was Sunday, a little past noon, and already he′d made calls for the Laura Cassidy autopsy report. This thing wasn′t going anywhere without him. It was never going to quietly disappear or evaporate. He would not be reassigned to something of greater priority. Until it was over. Well, until it was over, it was his life.
Irving had arrived at Carnegie′s with thirty-five minutes to spare. He ordered coffee, said it would be a little while before he was joined by two guests. He told the waitress that the discussion was of a somewhat confidential nature, and once they had ordered food - if they ordered food - then it would be better if they were left alone.
′You know me, sweetheart,′ she said. ′Never one to interfere where I′m not needed.′
Irving put a folded ten-dollar bill in her hand, thanked her, took his seat.
Irving could have been wrong, but he believed that Karen Langley had made an effort too. She had on a pants-suit, a cream-colored blouse with a scarf tied loosely at the neck. She looked relaxed but effortlessly classy. She seemed to possess numerous facets, and Irving had yet to find one that he did not like.
John Costello, however, looked as inconspicuous and low-key as ever. Perhaps he chose to be singularly unremarkable. Perhaps it was his mission in life never to be noticed again - not by a serial killer, not by anyone.
′Karen. John.′ Irving rose from the table and extended his hand to each of them.
Karen smiled. ′So formal,′ she said. ′Sit down, for God′s sake.′
Irving did as he was told.
Costello smiled at Karen Langley. He was the interested spectator, an observer in this small moment of theater.
′Thank you for coming, John,′ Irving said. ′First things first - are we going to eat?′