by J. L. Abramo
Bobby sits on his cot, crying, thinking about how badly he could use a cigarette right that minute.
“Who’s winning?” asks Kyle. “I forgot.”
“New York,” says Ripley.
“Good,” says Kyle.
“Good,” says Mickey.
Ripley looks down at the younger boy, not sure if he is mimicking Kyle or referring to the hot dog, a healthy chunk of which is hanging out of Mickey’s mouth.
A loud buzzer signals the end of the second period.
“Is it over?” asks Kyle.
The older boy is courageously fighting to keep his eyes opened.
Mickey is staring at the gob of mustard in his lap.
“Not yet, but we should get going,” says Ripley. “It’s late. You have school tomorrow. We can watch the end of the game on television while you guys get ready for bed.”
“Will we see us on TV, Dad?” Mickey asks.
“Maybe,” says Ripley, smiling.
“When does Mickey start regular school, Dad?” asks Kyle.
“Next year,” says Ripley.
“Good,” says Kyle, mischievously.
“Are you chewing, partner?” Ripley asks.
“Yes, Dad,” Mickey says, after displaying a number of exaggerated mouth movements and managing to swallow.
“Good, let’s go,” says Ripley.
Ripley carries Mickey in his arms and Kyle hangs on to Ripley’s coat as they move toward the Nassau Coliseum exit.
“Can I get some ice skates, Dad?” asks Kyle.
“Do you want to play hockey?”
“No. It looks like it hurts too much. I like the ones in the Olympics,” says Kyle.
“Yeah, the limpics,” says Mickey.
“Why not,” says Ripley. “I’m sure we can find you a pair of figure skates.”
“Yeah, figger skates,” says Mickey.
After thanking his aunt for dinner, Vota climbs into his car for the ride home. When he reaches Avenue U, Vota decides on another detour.
He turns left and drives the five blocks to Joe’s Bar and Grill.
Murphy is still at the bar when Vota walks in.
“Hey, Tommy, drinking your dinner?” he asks.
“Helping it down,” says Murphy.
Vota slides onto the stool beside him. He glances up at the television above the bar. Jean-Claude van Damme is rearranging someone’s facial features with a six-foot length of two-by-four.
“Is this the one where he plays twins?” asks Vota.
“I don’t think he ever made one where he didn’t play twins,” says Murphy.
“Who won the game?”
“Islanders, 2–1.”
“I’ll have what Tommy ordered,” Vota says to Augie.
“You want them all at once, or a few at a time,” Sena says, pouring a bourbon.
“And another round for Detective Murphy,” Vota says. “How’s the leg, Augie?”
“I’ll let you know in a few months when I find out if it’s still in there.”
“Here’s to law enforcement,” Murphy says, lifting his glass.
Vota lifts his drink and clinks it against Murphy’s.
“Is that marinara sauce on your collar, Tommy?” Vota asks after draining the shot glass.
“It’s a mussel shirt,” Murphy says, draining his.
“So, what went down in Sunset Park?” Vota asks.
“The guy threw me a curve ball. I swung and missed. He beat me in a footrace to the 4th Avenue Local. There’s a two-man stakeout in case he comes back to the house, and they’re working on a search warrant for the place. Any luck identifying a vehicle?”
“Narrowed it down slightly. Light gray four-door Olds sedan, crushed quarter-panel passenger side,” says Lou.
“Good work.”
“Wait, there’s more,” says Vota. “A child seat in back. And a bumper sticker. Baby on Board.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“I saw a sticker like that,” says Murphy, “recently. I can’t remember where or when.”
“Remember the car?”
“Nope. But then again, memory is not my strong suit, especially after three hours here with Augie pouring.”
“Well, no matter,” says Vota, “there’s probably a million of them out there like it.”
“I don’t know, most of the bumper stickers around these parts display messages like God Bless America or Unless You’re a Hemorrhoid, Get Off My Ass,” says Murphy. “Baby on Board is pretty sophisticated. Hey, Lou, do you know what Friday is?”
“Valentine’s Day.”
“I told you, Tommy,” says Augie Sena. “You’ve got to be the only person alive who didn’t know.”
“I told you I was one of a kind, Augie.”
“Not quite, Tommy,” says Vota. “You’ll have to make room for my Uncle Alfredo.”
The three sit huddled around the kitchen table in the DiMarco home.
Frances, back from St. Mary’s Church, holding her hands over her cup of coffee, palms down, for the little warmth it offers.
Lorraine, finally regaining a hold on her composure, trying it on for size.
Sal, fighting off an image in his mind. A flag-draped casket carried off a military plane at LaGuardia more than thirty years earlier.
“Dad?” Lorraine says.
“I know you are frightened, Lorraine. It will be alright,” Sal DiMarco says. “I promise you.”
How he can say such a thing, Lorraine is thinking, and be so convincing?
“I’m sorry,” she says, “for being such a coward.”
“Nonsense,” says Sal. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever known. And whether you realize it or not, you’re more concerned about worrying us than you are about yourself. So give us a little credit, we’re all in this together.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
“And talk to Lou,” says her father. “I’ll take you over for the test Wednesday morning. Don’t argue.”
“Okay.”
“I can make another pot of coffee,” Fran says.
“That’s alright, Mom, I really have to get going.”
“Please make one anyway, Frances,” says Sal. “I may be up for a while. I’ll walk you out, Lorraine.”
“It’s turned very cold,” says Lorraine when they reach her car.
“It’s supposed to warm up by Wednesday,” DiMarco says. “Call me tomorrow; we’ll make arrangements for getting over to the hospital for the MRI.”
“I will.”
“And Lorraine.”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Call Linda. Your sister is a pretty tough cookie herself. She should hear about this from you.”
“I will.”
Lorraine gives him a kiss on the cheek, climbs into her car, and pulls away.
Sal can smell the fresh coffee as he comes back into the house.
“I’m sorry that I kept it from you, Salvatore,” Fran says as she pours.
“It’s alright. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
A few minutes later the doorbell rings.
“Who could that be at this hour?” says Fran.
“Maybe Lorraine forgot something,” Sal says, rising and moving to the door.
When Sal DiMarco opens the front door he finds Frank Sullivan standing there, a shopping bag in one hand and a small suitcase in the other.
“I came to accept your offer,” says Sullivan. “If it’s still open.”
“Come in, Frank,” says Sal, “it’s freezing out here. What happened?”
“The woman, Annie. You saw her the other night. Your daughter gave her an overcoat,” says Sully, following Sal into the front room.
“Yes.”
“She’s dead. She killed herself. She reached a point that I don’t want to reach myself. I need your help.”
“Put the bags down, Frank, and let me take your coat,” says Sal. “There’s fresh coffee.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re wel
come,” says Sal DiMarco. “Please, make yourself at home.”
He wakes to find himself on the floor of the boy’s room. The Scotch bottle lies flat on the carpet. The bottle has miraculously held its contents from spilling over the toys surrounding him.
He splashes water on his face from the kitchen sink, gets into a heavy coat over a heavy sweater, and leaves the house. He walks to the phone booth at 5th Avenue, outside the dark movie theater.
He phones Victor Sanders again. There is no answer. He has been trying to reach the man for days. As he walks back to the house, he decides that he will need to come up with an alternative solution.
He first learned about pancuronium bromide from an article he read in a doctor’s office waiting room. His son’s doctor’s office. How the drug was used in capital executions.
After Derek was killed, he recalled more of what he had read. How the drug had a unique effect.
Much like being submerged in water.
Like baptism.
It was then that he decided to seek the drug out, and was finally pointed in the direction of Victor Sanders. The man had supplied two vials, and promised that he could get more.
He was able to begin his work, punish the perpetrators of the crime against him, against his son. And protect the sacrificed innocents by cleansing them from sin.
Baptism.
He would find another way.
He goes back to the boy’s room and takes a crayon, blue this time, and writes another note on yet another cover torn from an unused coloring book.
He has another package to deliver.
FIFTEEN
Tuesday morning.
Before leaving Joe’s Bar and Grill the previous night, Murphy and Vota had arranged to meet in the third-floor Homicide office at the 61st at eight forty-five. They would both be present for the appointment with Detective Marina Ivanov of the 60th.
At precisely 9:00 a.m., Ivanov walks into the squad room.
The three detectives exchange greetings and take seats around Murphy’s desk. No one seems to know how to begin.
“Can I get you something to drink, Detective,” asks Murphy. “Coffee or a soda?”
“Thank you, I’m good,” she says, lifting the very full coffee cup from the desk in front of her.
“If I recall correctly,” says Vota, “there’s a blackboard underneath that pile of coats. We could clear it off for you.”
“That’s okay,” says Ivanov. “Listen, before we begin, let me tell you where I stand. I’m not good at lecturing. I’m better at trying my hand at specific queries. And I’m not one of those who gets into the mind of the killer—it’s the last place I’d want to go. I’ve looked over the files. Maybe you could ask questions.”
“What’s the killer’s home address?” asks Murphy.
“Okay, let’s try this,” Ivanov says. “A few general thoughts based on what I’ve seen. I don’t believe that we are dealing with a textbook case. If there is anything even resembling a useful profile of a serial killer, this guy doesn’t fit it. There are important elements missing. There is nothing sexual, for one. More telling, there appears to be no psychopathic rage. Granted, the killer is doing unusual harm to the bodies of the victims, but it is done calmly, methodically, purposefully if you will. He is not interested in the act of mutilation. He is communicating. He is attempting to send a message. The message is the key.”
“What’s the message?” asks Vota.
“I don’t know,” says Ivanov, “but it’s related to the numbers written on the wall.”
“Isn’t there rage in clubbing the victim on the head with a blunt weapon?” asks Murphy. “With enough force to kill?”
“I don’t think so. It’s primitive, but effective,” says Ivanov. “It is a method of subduing and killing that would be used by someone who most likely had no experience in either. Knock them on the head, carry them away. Make sure that they don’t wake up before the detailed work is done.”
“Why bother with the Pavulon?” asks Vota. “The M.E. is almost certain that the blows were enough.”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” says Ivanov. “The drug is not really necessary, unless related to its clinical use or its particular effects.”
“It’s used in capital punishment. Has he instituted his own personal justice system?” asks Vota.
“I think that punishment may be part of this,” she says, “but what’s the connection between the two victims? And what could an eight-year-old have possibly done to deserve a death sentence?”
“We’ve got no connection,” says Murphy. “So. We are right back where we started.”
“Not necessarily, we just have to look closer. Look at it differently,” says Ivanov. “I have a strong feeling that there is a tie-in somewhere, connecting the victims, at least indirectly.”
“A strong feeling?” says Murphy.
“Okay,” says Ivanov, “a hunch.”
“So, why is he leaving clues?” asks Vota. “Not that they’re any help.”
“Remember, I’m only speculating,” says Ivanov. “This is pure guesswork based on rudimentary knowledge and very minimal experience.”
“So stipulated,” says Vota.
“He’s leaving messages. They look like clues because they are incomplete, not fully spelled out. I believe he will eventually tell us why he is killing. He wants to.”
“What’s he waiting for?” asks Murphy.
Ivanov hesitates long enough for Vota to answer the question.
“He needs time to finish.”
“I think so,” says Detective Ivanov. “I’m afraid he has another victim lined up. Or worse, maybe more than one. But I believe that there will be an end to it. And he’ll let us know everything when he’s done.”
“We need to know before he kills again,” says Samson, standing in the doorway.
Back from his meeting with Detective Chen, Samson has listened to part of the conversation.
“This is fucked, Sam,” says Murphy. “No fault of our friend here from the 60th, but we’re getting nowhere.”
“I had a thought on my way in this morning, something the detective from Flatlands said. If this guy is doling out retribution of some kind, why a young kid like Billy Ventura?” says Samson. “And I keep coming back to what the boy’s father said, about the guy who got into his cab and threw the Bible at him.”
“Someone threw a Bible at the boy’s father?” asks Ivanov.
“Not literally—the guy was going on about Abraham and Isaac,” says Samson.
“It’s the parents,” says Marina Ivanov, an involuntary reflex. “That’s the connection.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking. This guy is punishing the parents by taking the children,” Samson says.
“So, we need to see the parents again, find out what the link is,” says Vota.
“I hate saying it, but the parents may not know,” says Ivanov.
“I think they do know,” says Samson, “whether they know it or not.”
“Huh?” says Murphy.
“I think something happened to this guy that set him off,” says Samson, “and a parent of each of the victims was responsible somehow, even if unaware. We need to question all of them again, try to discover what it may be.”
“It won’t be much fun suggesting to a parent that he or she may be somehow responsible for the death of their own child,” says Ivanov.
“Who said anything about fun,” says Samson.
“I’d like to help,” says Ivanov.
“Sure,” says Samson. “We can use all of the help we can get.”
“Are you up for one more question?” asks Murphy.
“Go ahead,” Ivanov says.
“Can the Knicks make the playoffs?”
“Only mathematically.”
“What about the fingers?” Vota asks.
“I’m not sure,” Ivanov says.
“Jesus. Forget about being sure. What do you think? What’s y
our hunch? Why does he take them? What does he do with them?”
“Calm down, Lou,” says Murphy.
“I don’t know,” says Ivanov.
Sully has greeted the day in many strange places since he lost his business and ultimately lost his home. He wakes on Tuesday morning in one of the most unusual places he has found himself in for many months.
A bed.
He looks around the room. His bedroom.
It is the smaller of the two main rooms that make up the basement apartment. A single bed, a nightstand with lamp and clock radio, a chest of drawers, a small closet. He unpacks his possessions, fills drawers and hangers.
There is a small bathroom off this room. A sink, a toilet, a shower stall. There are clean towels, soap and shampoo. A new razor and a can of shaving cream. A fresh tube of toothpaste and a packaged toothbrush. A wrapped roll of toilet tissue, an unopened box of facial tissue. He shaves and showers.
He dresses and moves into the larger room.
A kitchen area, a narrow gas stove, a refrigerator, a small dining table, two chairs. A small sofa, a low coffee table, a television.
Two windows letting in light from the side driveway, just above ground level.
On the counter near the kitchen sink, an old toaster, an electric coffee percolator, an unopened can of coffee. In the cabinets, a few dishes, bowls and glasses. In the counter drawer, silverware, a can opener.
He is overwhelmed by the consideration.
Sully hears knocking on the door at the top of the stairs.
“Come in,” he calls.
“Good morning,” says Sal DiMarco as he walks down. “Please join us for breakfast, Frank; you can shop for groceries later today. Is there anything else you need down here?”
“You were very thorough, Mr. DiMarco. I really don’t know what to say. Except to thank you.”
“Enough said. Let’s eat and then we can walk over to see Joe Campo at the store. And please, call me Sal.”
“Thank you, Sal.”
Sully takes a quick glance back at his new home as he follows DiMarco up.
Ripley sits at his desk, face buried in a file folder, similar folders spread out in front of him. Agent Winona Stone taps at his door.