by R.J. Ellory
He turned to the two officers behind him, read their names from the tags above the breast pocket - Anderson and Maurizio.
′You stay here,′ he said to Maurizio. ′Wait for Gifford and search this floor and the basement. Look for any sign of forced entry. And you,′ he said to Anderson. ′You come to the upper floor with me.′
At the head of the stairs Irving knew. Almost without hesitation he isolated the single smear of blood on the doorjamb to his right. He turned and raised his hand. Anderson came to a halt on the last tread but one.
′Let me see what we′ve got,′ Irving said quietly. ′At this point the fewer people up here the better.′
Anderson nodded but didn′t speak. There was something in his expression that belied his considerable size. Irving recognized it. Anderson was young, still retained some small belief in the balance of things, pretended to himself that things turned out right more often than wrong. He didn′t want to see what was waiting for them on the upper floor of fourteen forty-eight East 17th Street. He would have bad dreams. The cynicism would start its work - slowly, inexorably - and within a decade, if he stayed with it, he would look and sound like Irving.
The relief in Anderson′s expression quickly dissolved as he watched Irving push open the first door with his gloved hand.
′Oh my God . . .′ Anderson heard him say, and the feeling that suddenly radiated outward from his lower gut, a feeling that seemed to render every muscle in his body utterly useless, was one he would never forget.
Later he would get to see the bodies, and he knew there would be nightmares.
Jeff Turner arrived at six-eleven a.m. He met Irving in the back yard.
′Nothing in the Hill house,′ he said. ′But I s′pose Gregory Hill can′t be your man now, can he?′
Irving looked up at the windows of the Allens′ house. ′This happened recently,′ he said. ′Sometime in the last few hours. Certainly during the time Hill was home with his family. Greg Hill couldn′t have a better alibi.′
′I heard word Grant was connected, the father of the first girl?′
′It was all a set-up,′ Irving replied. ′Or not. Jesus, who the fuck knows? There′s a possibility Grant′s PI—′
′His PI?′
′He hired a PI,′ Irving explained. ′Wanted to make sure we hadn′t missed anything obvious. Anyway, that′s not the issue right now.′
′And the fact that Hill has a wife and four kids, and Roarke tries to break in tonight of all nights . . . we′re saying that this is a coincidence?′
′We′re not saying anything right now, Jeff. Right now—′
′Right now we′re just delaying the inevitable.′
′We are.′
′You coming in with me?′ Turner asked.
′Yes,′ Irving said. ′It′s bad . . . real bad.′
SIXTY-THREE
Jeff Turner was not a native New Yorker. He hailed originally from California, graduated from U.C. Berkeley with a degree in Criminalistics and Criminal Science, transferred to New York after serving two years′ apprenticeship at CSA Level I in the San Francisco Sheriff′s Department, made CSA Level II at thirty-three. Turner was now close to forty-four, back of him a decade of further studies, a three-year term in the Scientific Investigation Division under the aegis of Support Services, further qualifications and certificates in Photographic, Latent Print, Electronics, Questioned Document, Toxicology, Peer Review and Supervision. He was single, childless, collected baseball cards, and watched Marx Brothers movies. He had seen everything there was to see in San Francisco and in New York, and if he′d not seen it in actuality he′d seen it in stills, on video, on 16mm, in digital.
Turner′s life was populated with the dead. He understood the dead far better than he′d ever understood the living. The dead spoke to him without words. They told him things they never would have communicated in life. And though he was not a religious man, he nevertheless believed in the fundamental spirituality of Man. He credited some higher power with the foresight and imagination to make Man something more than a hundred and sixty pounds of hamburger with a chemical street value of nineteen dollars. And throughout his career there had been moments. That was all he could say. Moments. The feeling that somewhere in the vicinity of the body, the person themself was still there. Looking down at him. Perhaps hoping that he, in his infinite wisdom, might give them some understanding of why this terrible thing had happened to them. The spirit of the individual? The soul? Jeff Turner didn′t know. He didn′t try to know. He just sensed what he sensed, perceived what he perceived. And on the upper floor of the Allen house, in the hour or so between his arrival and when he completed his initial examination of the six bodies present, he believed he′d experienced more moments in that one period than all the others combined.
When Deputy Coroner Hal Gerrard arrived, his presence required by law before the bodies could be moved or examined further, he found Jeff Turner standing in the kitchen, his face pale, his eyes glassy, a thin film of sweat across his forehead.
′How many you got?′ Gerrard asked.
′Six in all,′ Turner replied. ′Mom, Dad, four kids. Youngest seven, oldest thirteen. Fatal GSW, headshots, all of them . . . looks like a .38, but Irving says it′s gonna be a .35 rifle.′
Gerrard frowned.
′He was expecting this,′ Turner explained.
′I′m not gonna ask,′ Gerrard replied. He looked around the kitchen, out through the window into the back yard. ′And he is where?′
′Talking to Farraday from the car.′
′You need anything other than the usual from me?′
Turner shook his head. ′Just pronounce dead, authorize a full examination. I′m gonna need to move them to get my team through every room. Find what we can, you know? Take pictures of everything.′
Gerrard paused for a moment before making his way to the stairs. ′You okay?′
Turner shrugged. ′Kids. It′s the kids that get to me. Even after all these years . . .′
′I know, Jeff, I know exactly what you mean.′
Irving came in through the back kitchen door. He greeted Gerrard, told Turner that Farraday and Chief Ellmann wanted the crime scene processed as rapidly as possible. ′Said he would authorize however many people you need.′
′More people than I′ve got is not gonna help me,′ Turner said. ′I have two CSAs, that′s enough.′
′I′ll do what I need to and get out of your way,′ Gerrard said.
Irving looked at his watch; it was seven forty-two.
′How long since you slept?′ Turner asked him.
Irving smiled - sort of. ′I don′t remember,′ he said.
′Who′s on this with you?′
′Vernon Gifford, Ken Hudson if I need him.′
′From what I′ve seen so far there isn′t a great deal I can give you—′
′Anything is good,′ Irving said. ′Anything at all, Jeff . . . because right now we have nothing.′
Irving and Gifford waited in the kitchen.
Hal Gerrard was done and gone within twenty minutes. He shared a few words with Irving before he signed the necessary forms and left.
′I called Ken Hudson,′ Gifford said. ′I′ve got him tracking down this PI that Grant hired. Told him we might need to follow up on this Greg Hill thing as well, whether or not there′s an abuse situation.′
′The PI, yes,′ Irving replied. ′Don′t go near the Hill situation until we know what′s happening here. Right now it looks like they′re not connected, and I don′t want to stir anything else up.′
′We have a TOD yet?′
′Somewhere between midnight and one,′ Irving said.
′And Hill called us at what time?′
′We had squad cars on East 35th at ten-fifty, give or take.′
′So Hill is out of the frame for this.′
′He is,′ Irving said, and then looked up toward the ceiling as the sound of footsteps echoed through from the landing, t
he bathroom, the master bedroom. Turner and his two CSAs were up there, would be up there as long as it took, and then they would have something. Or they would have nothing.
′Gotta make a call,′ Irving said. ′Stay here, I′ll be back in a moment.′
Gifford sat down at the kitchen table. Irving left by the rear door, walked around the side of the house and got in the car.
He sat there for a minute, and then reached for his cellphone and dialed a number.
It rang four or five times before it was answered.
′John? It′s Ray Irving . . .′
Costello didn′t speak.
A moment′s further silence, and then Irving said, ′He did it . . . Mom and Dad and four kids. Killed all of them.′
SIXTY-FOUR
Turner came down to the kitchen a few minutes before seven-thirty. He sat at the table across from Irving and Gifford, and spread out a sheet of paper on which he′d drawn a plan of the upper floor, the position of each room, an outline where each body had been found.
′You were right on the .35 caliber,′ he said. ′Looks like he woke up the parents, made them walk ahead of him from one room to the next. As far as I can tell he shot the two youngest girls, then the boy, finally the eldest girl. Mom and Dad were last—′
′He made them watch their own kids being executed?′ Gifford said, his tone incredulous.
′Looks that way. The dad has a wide gash on his head, looks like the butt of the rifle. Maybe he tried to get the gun away from the killer and he hit him down. Either that, or he shot the kids, the sound woke the parents, and he came into their room as they were getting up. Made them lie down again, and then shot them. It′s not possible to determine the precise sequence of events from the physical evidence, but as far as I can figure it happened one of those two ways. My guess, for what it′s worth, is the former not the latter.′
′Far as we can tell he came in through the back door,′ Irving said. ′He disabled the alarm outside, cut the wiring just beneath the eaves, and then picked the lock. He knew what he was doing. There′s barely a mark on the cover or the striker plate.′
′I cannot believe that the guy just walked in here and executed an entire family,′ Gifford said, still stunned, still in disbelief.
Turner seemed not to hear him; he didn′t comment or reply. He looked back over his shoulder toward the stairs as if he′d heard something, and then he gave Irving a brief summary of what he had been able to determine.
′As you can imagine there are partials everywhere. We′ve printed the entire family for elimination, but the bulk are transfers, smudges, overlays, the usual traffic you′d get in a residential property. Every room is carpeted except the bathroom. That′s floored in linoleum, but it′s heavily embossed, too ridged for footprints to be determined. There are no shell casings, but entry wounds tell me he used a .35 rifle. It′s different from a .38 even though the caliber is so close. They were all hit at close range, less than four feet in each instance. Death would have been instant, no question. Blood spatter tells me that all of them were recumbent. Rifle could have been silenced, so no-one got out of bed or sat up as a result of the noise. No indication that any of the bodies were touched post mortem. We′ll autopsy of course, but I don′t think that′ll give you anything we haven′t already got as far as COD is concerned.′
′And the house?′ Irving asked.
′We′ll do the whole thing,′ Turner said. ′Back door, rear of the building, under the eaves, everywhere there′s indications of physical contact, but you know how this goes, right?′
′Right,′ he echoed, fatigue and desperation coloring his voice. ′Won′t make any difference now, but I′d like to know if these people were visited, if they were on the list of families that were warned.′ He rose to his feet, feeling the immense weight of his burden. ′We′re going to do the street,′ he said.
′Best of luck,′ Turner said.
They went out together, Irving and Gifford, and began the long and laborious process of canvassing the street. They took the first dozen houses on either side of fourteen forty-eight, Irving to the left, Gifford to the right, and then the houses opposite. They made notes of the empty properties for later visits, but they were fortunate in that the majority of residents had not yet left for work. Not so fortunate in the number of people who had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. By nine-thirty they still had nothing of significance. Farraday had paged Irving three times, but Irving hadn′t yet called him.
Nine-forty and Turner called Irving to let him know that the bodies were coming out. By this time there was sufficient police activity to have attracted a gathering of onlookers on the sidewalk. Irving asked them to step back to make way for the gurneys, to let the coroner′s staff and the forensics crew do their jobs uninterrupted. They complied, somewhat resentfully it seemed, as if it was their right to see what had happened. Fortunate they didn′t see, Irving thought. Fortunate indeed.
Turner sent his own CSAs with the bodies, stayed behind to walk Irving and Gifford through the upper rooms, show them the precise position of where each body had been found, the route he thought the gunman had taken.
While Turner and Gifford talked in the master bedroom, Irving stood alone in the little boy′s room for quite some time. Kid′s name was Brandon. All of seven years old. A stack of X-Men DVDs were scattered beneath the player. Action figures sat on bookshelves and spilled from a nest of brightly colored storage boxes. A white snowman night-light still burned ever so faintly, and Irving stepped forward to flick off the switch with the toe of his shoe. November 13th, a handful of days to Thanksgiving, less than six weeks to Christmas. He imagined the boy had already made his list.
He looked around as Turner and Gifford appeared in the doorway.
′Anything?′ Gifford asked.
Irving shook his head. ′Nothing.′
′Feeling I get,′ Gifford said, ′is that if there′s anything here it′ll have been left intentionally.′
′Agreed,′ Irving replied. He took one more look around the boy′s room and walked back to the top of the stairs. ′We′re heading to the Fourth,′ he told Turner. ′Keep me posted on the autopsies. Gonna need the reports as soon as they′re done.′
′I′ll do my preliminaries as well,′ Turner replied. ′I′ll e-mail them to you direct.′
They parted company, Irving and Gifford to the car, Turner through the house once again to insure it was securely contained. A squad car would remain out front for the rest of the day, perhaps longer. They would prevent entry to the property, both by the press and that small and elite collective of individuals who violated crime scenes in order to steal artifacts and take pictures. Thinking of such people, Irving was reminded of the Hammer of God article, the complaint made by the owner of the auto-shop where Robert Clare had worked.
Gifford drove. Irving sat in silence. He saw action figures and blood spatter. That was all he saw. Couldn′t get the image out of his head.
Action figures and blood spatter.
Irving spoke with Hudson as soon as he reached the incident room. Hudson had not yet located Anthony Grant′s PI. He had a name, a cellphone number. Karl Roberts. That was all. Operated out of a one-room office on East 25th near the Manhattan Appellate Court. Hudson had gone down there, beat on the door until the tenant in the adjacent office came out to ask him what in God′s name was going on. Grant had been contacted, was unaware of Roberts′s whereabouts. Irving was not overly concerned at this stage. Roberts may or may not have given Desmond Roarke instructions to break into Greg Hill′s home. It didn′t matter how it had come about. Greg Hill was off their radar as far as the Allen killings were concerned. Irving had even considered that Mia Grant might have been murdered by Hill, and his MO had merely been coincidental with the original Kathy Sue Miller killing from 1973, but he′d immediately dismissed the possibility. Hadn′t The New York Times ′Isaiah′ letter that promised another six deaths made specific reference to Mia Grant, how she had
gone oh so very quietly into that long goodnight? They were the same person - this was the only thing of which Irving was sure - and if Hill wasn′t the Allens′ killer, then he was out of the picture for all the others.
Irving′s thoughts were more for his meeting with Bill Farraday than whatever else Ken Hudson might have had to say. He told Hudson to keep working on finding Grant′s PI, and headed on up to the captain′s office.
SIXTY-FIVE
′Karl Roberts,′ Irving said. ′We have no way of knowing if he was involved until we track him down. Right now all we have is Desmond Roarke saying that it was Grant who called him. Grant says he hasn′t spoken to the guy for four years and I′m inclined to believe him. We′re having the phone records checked at Grant′s house, but if it was Grant who set Roarke up I don′t think he would have been so stupid as to have called Roarke from his own home.′
Farraday stood by the window, back to the room, hands in his pockets. ′So what do you make of it?′
′I think our killer did some digging on Grant, not only on his personal life but also on his client history. Grant said that Mia might have suspected him of having an affair. Maybe she knew more, maybe she knew that it was Laura Hill. There′s always the possibility that Mia′s killer made her tell him everything she knew about her father. And then from Grant′s client history he tracked down Desmond Roarke and set him up to break into Greg Hill′s house. Several things result. We get a false alarm on the six killings he spoke about in the Isaiah letter, Evelyn Grant more than likely finds out about the affair with Laura Hill, we have resources tied up investigating Hill and Roarke, and he reminds us how many steps ahead of us he is. He knows who we are. He knows I′m heading up this investigation. All it would take was seeing Chief Ellmann′s statement, a little surveillance over the last week or so, check some of the addresses I′ve visited, look on the voters′ register, put two and two together. He′s not stupid. He clued us in on the six victims in his letter, and worked out what we would do.′