The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

  Irving let go of it. He didn′t believe it. He was filling empty spaces with whatever he could find, and what he was using just didn′t fit.

  John Costello was a surviving victim. That was all. He was a man with an extraordinary ability to connect the dots, and that ability could prove useful in making some sense of what had happened. There was nothing more to it than that. The man was an enigma - granted - but Irving wanted so much to believe that he was not a serial killer.

  By five p.m., fatigued from reading endless pages of close-typed documentation, he spent an hour rearranging files and photographs, putting things in chronological sequence. He underlined certain points on certain pages from original incident reports. He made notes of things he did not wish to forget when Costello came.

  Before he left he called the coroner′s office, asked for the autopsy report on Laura Cassidy. Hal Gerrard was not there, but one of his assistants said that Irving could drive over and pick it up.

  Irving did so, went on home from there. A little after seven he sat in the kitchen of his apartment and read through the brief notes regarding the death of a twenty-four-year-old record store employee that New York had already forgotten. Laura Margaret Cassidy, murdered in the same fashion as Alexandra Clery, unconfirmed Zodiac victim.

  Once again, it was all assumption. The connection was tenuous at best. What was it that could prove this spate of killings had been carried out by the same man? Nothing but the dates, that was all. Nothing but the fact that these people had been killed in certain ways on certain dates.

  Was that enough?

  Irving tossed the pages aside and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, felt the onset of a headache somewhere back of his forehead.

  It would have to be enough - that was the truth - because it was all they had.

  THIRTY-NINE

  ′Do I get a badge?′ Costello asked. His expression was deadpan, no D trace of humor.

  ′A what?′

  ′A badge. Like I′ve been deputized or something, you know?′

  Irving frowned. ′You can′t be serious.′

  Costello shrugged. He rose from the desk in Irving′s makeshift incident room and walked to the window, where he stood for a moment counting cars - white cars. It was twenty past ten, morning of Monday, September 18th. Karen Langley had spoken with Leland Winter, Winter had spoken with Bryan Benedict. Benedict and Captain Farraday had spent no more than fifteen minutes on the telephone, and Costello had been dispatched from the New York City Herald offices on West 31st and Ninth to the Fourth Precinct station house on 57th and Sixth. There were no concessions. There were no exclusives agreed if the case should break. There were no special favors granted. The City Herald was lending the NYPD a crime researcher, a man with twenty years′ experience in the subject, a man who could perhaps think outside the orthodox framework within which these matters usually resided. John Costello - it was considered - would not think like a homicide detective. Somehow he would think differently, and this change of perspective, this shift of viewpoint, was what Irving believed they needed.

  Costello turned from the window, hands in his pockets. ′Simply stated we have nine murder victims,′ he said. ′Earliest one was June third, latest one, Laura Cassidy, we think was September fourth, even though she was discovered on Saturday eleventh.′ Costello smiled at Irving. ′I wonder how he felt when she was left undiscovered.′

  ′I thought the same thing,′ Irving said. ′Why send us the Shawcross letter to make sure we got the Anne Marie Steffen connection, why paint the Wolfe kid′s face, and then leave his Zodiac girl like that?′

  ′He must have been crawling out of his skin with frustration.′

  ′It could simply be a matter of limiting the clues. He wants us to get enough, but not too much.′

  ′Mystique,′ Costello said.

  ′Mystique?′ ′That′s what it′s all about really, isn′t it? FBI profiler called John Douglas said that the motivation for all of these people is simply the effort to define and perpetuate their own mythology. They all want to be someone but they′re not, so they have to make themselves someone in order to be heard.′

  ′The abused and neglected child cliché,′ Irving said.

  ′Clichés are only clichés because they possess enough truth to be repeated.′

  Irving walked to the boards at the end of the room. Within a moment Costello was beside him, each of them scanning the faces of the victims, their respective names, the dates and times of death, the pins and flags indicating crime scene locations on the city map.

  ′It doesn′t have to make sense, does it?′ Irving asked.

  ′Make sense?′ Costello echoed. ′No, it doesn′t actually have to make any sense at all.′

  ′Except to him.′

  ′To him it makes perfect sense, otherwise there would be no reason to do it.′

  ′Makes you realize how utterly fucking crazy some people are.′

  ′The feeling is mutual,′ Costello said. ′This man feels the same way about us as we do about him.′

  ′You honestly believe that?′

  ′Yes, I do.′

  Neither spoke for a while, and then Costello turned and walked back to the desk. ′Crime scene photographs,′ he said. ′I think we should look at every picture that was taken, and if we can′t find what we′re looking for then we should go to the crime scenes themselves.′

  ′Look for the signature,′ Irving said. ′I can get the pictures. Access to crime scenes I′m not so sure.′

  ′I appreciate the necessity for confidentiality, but if there are parameters—′

  ′Let′s take a look at the pictures,′ Irving said. ′If we need to go to the crime scenes we′ll worry about that as and when.′

  They started work, emptying the respective files of all pictures. In all there proved to be over two hundred images.

  Costello and Irving moved the desks back against the wall facing the window. They laid the pictures out on the floor, side-by-side, case by case, until there was not an inch of carpet remaining visible.

  Costello stood on the desk, hands on his hips, and surveyed the jigsaw of images beneath him. Irving stood by the window.

  ′Come up here,′ Costello said. ′It will give you a different perspective.′

  ′Give me a different perspective? You are so—′

  ′Seriously,′ Costello interjected. ′Come and take a look at this.′

  Irving tip-toed his way between the lines of pictures and reached the other side of the room. He climbed up on the desk and stood beside Costello, the pair of them looking down at the myriad color photographs.

  ′The girl found in the apartment,′ Costello said. ′Whoever took the PO Box had to provide ID?′

  ′You can take a box with a driver′s license, something like that,′ Irving said. ′Whoever it was used some false ID with the name Shawcross, and simply gave the Montgomery Street apartment as his address.′

  Costello was silent for a moment, and then said, ′You see any similarity?′

  ′I′ve been through these things a dozen times. I′ve looked at them back to front, upside down, every which way . . . see if there was anything that stood out, and I can′t see a goddamned thing.′

  ′There is no signature,′ Costello said. ′He′s a chameleon. He just assumes someone else′s color.′

  ′Very poetic,′ Irving replied, an edge of sarcasm in his tone.

  ′It takes a particular kind of person to sacrifice that much of themselves, don′t you think?′

  ′Sacrifice?′

  ′Maybe not a good choice of word, but you know what I mean. Whoever this is, well he must be compelled to do this, right? This is a compulsion. These aren′t crimes of circumstance. This takes planning, very methodical, very precise as to victim, manner of death, location of the body, the position in which it′s left, all these things. He′s a perfectionist, and yet he seems able to leave nothing of himself behind. He doesn′t want us to know who he is on tw
o levels. First, because he doesn′t want to get caught, and secondly because he believes he is superior - not only to all these previous killers - but also to us.′

  ′Now you′re beginning to sound like a profiler,′ Irving said. ′We don′t need you to tell us what he′s like. We need you to put your knowledge to use in determining who he will replicate next.′

  Costello came down off of the desk and stepped carefully between the pictures. He picked up an image of one of the girls found by the East River Park. He looked at it for a moment, and then set it down. Next was a picture of Mia Grant, the girl found by the Thomasian twins, the Murray Hill want-ad killing.

  ′Harv the Hammer,′ Costello said. ′That was Harvey Carignan′s nickname. Then you have the two girls at the park killed by the Sunset Slayers. John Wayne Gacy . . . far as I know he was never given a name, nor was Kenneth McDuff. Shawcross was called the Monster of the Rivers, and lastly we have the apartment girl, Cassidy, where we′re given the most famous of them all, the Zodiac.′

  ′What are you looking for?′ Irving asked.

  ′Whatever there is,′ Costello replied. ′He chooses them for a reason, perhaps the original killers′ names, the victims′ names, the dates—′ Costello paused, looked up at Irving.

  ′What?′

  ′I want to make a list of the dates, the original dates and the new ones.′

  Costello and Irving did so, factoring in the discovery of Laura Cassidy on the assumption that she was murdered on the 4th of September. Costello noted the dates in sequence all the way back to Mia Grant on June 3rd, and then he calculated the number of days between them.

  ′Mia Grant to the two girls, Ashley Burch and Lisa Briley, is nine days. From there to the kid in the firework warehouse is forty-seven days. From there to the girl and her two friends in the trunk of the car is eight days. Then we have a twenty-nine day gap to the fourth of September and Laura Cassidy. Finally, even though she was found before the Cassidy girl, we have a seven day break to the killing of Carol-Anne Stowell. That′s nine, forty-seven, eight, twenty-nine, and then seven—′

  ′Nine, eight, seven are the intervening numbers,′ Irving said. ′If we drop out the forty-seven and twenty-nine-day gaps, we have a sequence.′

  ′Which would mean that if there′s an intended sequence in it, he kills on some undefined date, and then kills again six days later.′ Costello shook his head. ′I don′t think there′s anything in the dates. They′re not prime numbers, they′re not all odd or all even. The numbers that are half way between the differences don′t follow a sequence.′

  Irving sat on the window sill, hands in his pockets. ′He′s just taken certain killers, or certain types of murders. I don′t think it′s any more complicated than what we first suspected.′

  ′He simply wants to share his brilliance with the world.′

  ′Whatever you want to call it,′ Irving said.

  ′So if it′s not the victims, and if he isn′t limiting himself to killers who have been caught - which he isn′t - then it will be something else . . .′ He paused, then said, ′So we go to the crime scenes.′

  ′I′ll do what I can,′ Irving replied.

  ′And I′ll wait for you to call me,′ Costello replied. He rose from the desk and put on his jacket. ′Leave a message with Karen and I′ll call you back.′

  ′A question.′

  Costello smiled, as if he′d known it was coming.

  ′You live where?′

  ′You know where I live, Detective Irving.′

  Irving couldn′t deny it, didn′t try. ′I find it hard to understand how you can live such an insular life—′

  ′Insular?′ Costello asked. ′How is my life insular?′

  ′You go to work. The person you work for has never been to your apartment. You don′t seem to have any particular social habits. I presume you are not in a relationship currently—′

  ′And you feel this is a problem?′

  ′Well, I don′t know that it′s necessarily a problem as such, but I just figure you must be kind of lonely—′

  Costello buried his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor for a moment. When he looked up he had a calm and unperturbed expression on his face.

  ′Seems we′re two of a kind then, doesn′t it, Detective?′

  Ray Irving watched him leave and didn′t say a word.

  FORTY

  The thought kept going: A desire to define and perpetuate their own mythology.

  It kept Irving awake, and the more he considered it the more it made sense.

  Somewhere after two in the morning he got out of bed and went to look up the word in a dictionary. Myth. It spoke of superhuman beings, demigods, deities. It spoke of created identities, those identities employed to explain the inexplicable.

  It wasn′t possible to rationalize what this man was doing. It wasn′t even necessary to rationalize it. It was merely necessary to attempt to understand him, and with understanding would come the ability to predict. What would he do next? Who would he be? And when?

  Irving fell asleep close to three, woke at seven-thirty, was out of the apartment by quarter past eight.

  He decided to pass on breakfast at Carnegie′s, picked up some coffee, and set out straight for the Fourth. Then he sat in gridlock on Tenth until he managed to take a detour on 42nd, which took him past the north corner of Bryant Park. Mia Grant. Fifteen years old. Dead in her tracks, Harv the Hammer-style.

  Farraday was due in at nine, no word at the desk to suggest otherwise, and Irving waited in the corridor outside the captain′s office until he appeared at the top of the stairwell.

  ′Good, bad or indifferent?′ Farraday asked.

  ′I need to take Costello to the crime scenes.′

  Farraday stopped, fingers holding the key. Put the key in the lock. Inhaled slowly, and closed his eyes for a moment.

  ′He′s not our man,′ Irving said.

  ′I have been thinking about this,′ Farraday replied. He turned the key, opened the door, stepped inside his office.

  Irving followed him, did not sit. He didn′t intend staying long.

  ′Polygraph,′ Farraday said matter-of-factly.

  ′On Costello?′ Irving shook his head. ′Come on . . . that really is not going to fly. Those things are bullshit anyway—′

  ′Hear me out, Ray, hear me out.′ Farraday sat down behind the desk, steepled his fingers and looked at Irving soberly. ′Sit down,′ he said.

  Irving did so.

  ′Okay, so he′s employed temporarily. He′s a crime researcher, he′s serving some function here. So far so good, but let′s go a different route. Let′s say this fucks up. Let′s say that it′s someone from this hotel group of his. I don′t know, I′m just throwing ideas out here, you know? I want to make sure that there is nothing that can come back at us for making this decision.′

  ′I am not going to polygraph this guy, Captain, seriously. Firstly, it isn′t even admissible, and if something went wrong it wouldn′t hold up as any kind of defense, and secondly . . . shit, the guy is nervous enough as it is. He′s not doing this just because he wants to, he′s doing it because he feels he has to.′

  ′But why?′ Farraday asked.

  ′Who the fuck knows. His own history? Basic human nature, maybe.′

  Farraday smiled cynically.

  ′Let me take him round the crime scenes. It′s not a big deal. Who the hell is even gonna know? Let me take him round for a couple of hours, and that′ll be the end of that. Hell, he might even find something that we′ve missed.′

  ′You really believe that′s possible?′

  ′Well, he picked up on a couple of small points we missed before, right?′

  ′Sarcasm I can′t use,′ Farraday said. ′So go, do it, whatever.′ He waved his hand dismissively. ′I don′t want to hear about this from anyone but you.′

  ′You have my word.′

  An hour and a half later John Costello stepped from a cab outside the
Fourth Precinct and crossed the forecourt to where Irving was waiting for him. The day was dry and clear, refreshingly chill, and once again Irving was reminded of how soon Christmas would arrive, the inherent sense of loneliness it seemed to promise. He would never advise having a partner die in November.

  ′You okay?′ Irving asked.

  Costello nodded in the affirmative. ′Where first?′ he said.

  ′Mia Grant,′ Irving replied, and walked Costello to the car out back of the building.

  Bryant Park, the low overhang of trees beneath which the Thomasian twins had discovered the girl′s plastic-wrapped body. On from there to the expressway off Roosevelt Drive, adjacent to the East River Park, the two of them standing silently by the bank of trees where Ashley Burch and Lisa Briley had been found by Max Webster. Then, maintaining the crime scenes in sequential order, Irving took Costello to East 39th, to the Wang Hi Lee Carnival & Firework Emporium, the small hole in the concrete floor from where James Wolfe′s grotesque clown-painted face had stared back up at them. On they went, to the site of Caroline Parselle′s battered body, there beneath the Queensboro Bridge, and then the locale of the dark grey Ford on East 23rd and Second where the two boys had been found, at which point Costello asked about the car, where it was, what had happened to it.

  ′It′s in lock-up,′ Irving said. ′It had been wiped clean. Reported stolen nearly two months before, but nothing in it that gave us any direction.′

  Costello nodded, asked no further questions.

  Lastly they drove from East 23rd and 2nd to Pier 67 via Twelfth Avenue. Here Costello leaned over the parapet and looked down to where Carol-Anne Stowell′s body had been dumped. The water that lapped in from the Hudson was grey and cold and unforgiving. Any trace that might have been left there had long since been washed away. All memories of Carol-Anne Stowell now resided in the depths of the river, and the river would never give them up.