by Dave Warner
‘You are uninjured?’ he asked, and felt this completely inadequate.
‘Thanks to your training.’ Georgette told him about her self-defense.
‘Your father said there was no weapon?’
‘That I saw.’ She described in exact detail what had happened. Then Benson told him what they knew thus far of the turn of events.
‘All persons of interest were being watched when this happened,’ he said. ‘Scheer got a call at his house at two-oh-six this morning. The call came from a cell belonging to a young woman who at the time was clubbing in Chelsea. She thought she’d lost her phone but it turned up on the bar.’
‘Somebody took her phone out of her bag and called Scheer,’ deduced Holmes.
‘That’s what we think. The club has CCTV. We might get lucky but I doubt it. We don’t know what was said on the call because we have no warrant to tap the phones of anybody other than the Bed-Stuy drug dealer used by Morris. We’re still chasing a link between Morris and Ricky Coleman. Whoever made that call, it wasn’t any of our persons of interest, including Coleman, because they were all under surveillance and none of them were anywhere near Chelsea. For now, it looks like Scheer was Noah and had some accomplice, or he was involved with Noah and something went wrong.’
Harry speculated they would get evidence from this scene.
‘Looks like it,’ agreed Lipinski, who had been in conference with the techs. ‘Prints, likely DNA.’
Holmes craned for a look at the murder scene.
‘Is there any possibility that I could –’
‘No,’ said Benson. Holmes had expected as much.
He said, ‘You might want to locate a fellow named “Mat”, surname unknown.’
They had found a staffroom down the corridor. Harry nursed a coffee, Lipinski rifled biscuits. Neither Benson or Lipinski looked like they had slept in days. Holmes had told them what he had learned in Boston.
‘I apologize but I was not investigating as such, just tidying up a potential loose end and saw no reason to waste your time.’ Holmes stirred his tea slowly.
Georgette waited for the explosion but Benson remained calm. Without further engaging Holmes, Benson dialled Boston Homicide and asked them to get two crack detectives onto learning Mat’s identity.
‘We need you to get down to Sunrise House and sort this out now. Find a guy named …’ he looked to Holmes for a reminder.
‘Barron.’
‘Barron. Thank you.’ He ended the call and said to Holmes. ‘It was a good pick-up. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt you that were going to tell me all about this when your phone cut out.’
‘Since we’re in this spirit of cooperation, perhaps we could check Scheer’s phone records for the day we first visited here?’
Georgette saw Harry’s eyes narrow. That was still a sore point.
‘Wednesday November eighteen,’ she said.
Holmes said, ‘It would be interesting to see if Scheer tried to call Sunrise House immediately after our visit. If he had foreknowledge of the crime and Mat is some confederate …’
‘Yeah, we get it,’ said Benson as Lipinski trolled through her phone.
Through a mouthful of biscuit, she said, ‘Looks like he called at two forty-eight p.m.’
Georgette said, ‘That would be about forty minutes after we left.’
Holmes said, ‘Melissa Harper had a meeting with Scheer, so perhaps he needed to wait until that meeting was over. Then he called Sunrise House at the earliest opportunity.’
The call had been less than a minute, noted Lipinski.
‘Perhaps an inquiry as to whether Mat was there, answered in the negative.’ Nobody disputed Holmes on that.
‘There was another call three hours later,’ Lipinski reached for another biscuit.
‘Trying to reach the elusive Mat again.’ Holmes used a tone that intimated he was speculating.
‘Or he could have been reminding Leonard Chester or another patient to take his medication,’ said Benson, and Holmes nodded graciously. That second call had also been short.
‘Unfortunately my friend Barron will not be able to assist us on any of these calls. He told me at the time he had taken up the offer of two weeks at St Joseph’s, where, to quote “the food is to die for”. He had only just returned from this sabbatical and resumed his phone answering duties when he took Scheer’s call from the bodega. It is possible Scheer did not actually mean to assault you, Watson.’
She felt like slapping Holmes.
‘He grabbed me!’
‘True but he did not threaten you with a weapon.’
‘He was pissed at me for duping him.’
‘Also true but did that warrant a trip to your apartment? You recall your conversation with Scheer over lunch at which he avowed that you and he were both the target of authorities threatened by your work?’
Georgette did, and saw where Holmes was heading. ‘You think Mat is a patient of Scheer’s who Scheer was trying to protect?’
‘That would make sense. He might have thought you could make representation to the police, arrange some kind of way for Mat to be apprehended without being killed. Against that, how would Mat be able to follow the method of the Picture Book Killer unless Scheer had told him about it? Surely a professional like Scheer would not divulge such information to somebody unstable. And yet the fact Scheer called Sunrise House immediately after we had first visited him, and then made a call from a corner-store phone after being questioned by police, suggests there was some link.’
Harry said he might have just been careless. ‘Maybe Scheer left the book around and this Mat found it.’
‘Then why not admit that?’ queried Holmes. ‘One could hardly blame him for leaving a book lying about.’
Georgette sensed the two homicide detectives had been listening with interest. Now Lipinski said, ‘Shall we tell them?’
Benson said, ‘An analysis of Scheer’s computer shows he was looking for a copy of Crimini d’Italia as far back as April. Well, certainly searching for books by Pasquale Ometti. He was even checking out European sellers of rare books.’
Months before it turned up on Edwards’ site, thought Georgette.
‘So, he already knew about the book,’ said Holmes stroking his chin. ‘That is interesting.’
‘Maybe Scheer was like some puppet-master,’ said Harry. ‘You know, using some vulnerable kid to do his dirty work.’
He was arrogant enough, thought Georgette.
Holmes said, ‘It seems unusual for somebody to derive pleasure from bloody killings like this by proxy. I can’t imagine Jack the Ripper brainwashing some underling. The pleasure is the participation.’
Benson seemed to agree. ‘If Scheer was setting this up, you think he’d want the trophies for himself but there is no sign of anything like that here, no cubes of flesh from the victims, no gadget to excise the tissue. And when we tossed his house, same deal.’
Holmes said, ‘If the killer was indeed a puppet and this murder is a sign of his rebellion, the killings may stop. If not however …’
‘He will escalate.’ It was Lipinski who spoke. None of them disagreed.
Kate had been in New York two weeks and the money she’d brought with her was nearly drained, even though she’d picked up a few hours daily work handing out pamphlets for a pancake place. Trouble was she was still spending faster than she was earning. She needed to go out each night to shorten the next day and therefore spend less money, but even sitting on a cocktail for hours she hadn’t been able to make the money stretch far enough. And if you were having a good time, you couldn’t just fold up. Megan had scored a job waitressing but then Megan had more going for her. Being blonde for a start, and bouncy, dimples when she smiled. Kate’s hair was boring brown and, let’s face it, her thighs were large and ugly. The Mexican kid they’d met at the skate park said he was earning good bucks at a call centre. And he didn’t speak nearly as good as she did. Call centre it might have to be. She check
ed her watch. The dude had said he’d be here at ten, in the little playground in Riverside Park near West 76th, and it was already nearly twenty after. And too cold to hang around. Kate was annoyed. She could have slept in, saved money. Kate stamped her feet. She’d invested in good boots, that was one thing. The jacket and scarf were cheap but efficient, but it was way colder than what she was used to. They’d met last night in the Heights near the skate park: Megan, the Mexican kid, the Mex’s pal, just turned a corner and there the dude was, bandanna like a cowboy robber, spray can in each fist. He was good, real good, the elephant he’d done was huge, standing on two legs.
‘He’s dope,’ Kate had said, pointing at the image which was lit by the only remaining working streetlight. She wasn’t wanting to come on to him or anything, just it was how she felt.
‘It’s a she,’ he’d said and she could see his eyes were really studying her above that mask. And so when he’d said he could show her some stuff tomorrow, she’d said sure. But now she was wondering if he’d been having a joke at her expense because here at the playground was this little elephant statue and kids were climbing around it. She was just about to go when there he was, ambling towards her, no bandanna this time but she recognized him anyway.
‘Thought you weren’t going to show up. You should have given a phone number.’
‘I don’t have a phone.’
‘I’d give you mine but I don’t even know your name.’
‘Noah,’ he said.
No cocaine but he had his pipe, that was something. Think. He had worked his way to the park near the lab where he had rendezvoused with Georgette that first time after believing he’d been kidnapped by Moriarty. How long ago it seemed now. While he was out here, Georgette was in the lab trying to find a way to reverse whatever was happening to the hamsters, and by extension what would happen to him. He could not afford to dwell upon that. He would not.
His task was solely to prevent another murder. So, think, Holmes. For the umpteenth time he calculated the state of play. Very well, rule out Morris as Noah: the Morris–Coleman drug connection, well, vaguely possible but it relied on Coleman being dumb enough to leave a fingerprint while being smart enough to conceal his DNA. Every investigation threw up time-wasting leads. Holmes made the decision that was all Walter Morris and his narcotics friends were.
Which returned him to Scheer. Scheer had been looking for the book as far back as April and now Scheer was dead. Here is the conundrum: Scheer learned about Crimini d’Italia by sometime around April and had sought the book without success. There were no mentions of it on the Internet, however, and his search had proven futile. Until July when he had been directed to Edwards’ listing. And now something else pricked Holmes. Edwards had said he’d not even time to do his usual precis of the book, and at the time Scheer’s inquiry had come through, had only loaded the cover. Scheer hadn’t just got lucky, he already knew about that book. How?
Scheer had held his seminar and then Noah had begun his work in October. Who would Scheer tell about the book? Another professional, a psychologist or perhaps a writer, somebody he thought could turn the tale into an interesting read, like Watson with his chum Conan Doyle? Yes, that was possible. But how did he even know about it back in February? That was the nub of the matter and it was eluding him.
Try another angle. He looked up into the grey sky, like a giant tombstone, he thought, pressing down. What do we know of Noah? What have his victims told us? Like a starving dog, his mind sniffed every inch of the case looking for a morsel.
‘It was weird. All the organs were free of cancer and infection but atrophied.’ Charmain had grown up in Sri Lanka. She had gorgeous green eyes and frizzy, dark hair. She looked about twenty-one but was in her mid-thirties with two children. She was very, very good at her job. She pointed at the screen on her desk and Georgette could clearly see what she meant about Zoe’s brain. The worst imaginable outcome was becoming a reality.
‘How old was she?’ Charmain was selecting autopsy images of Zoe on her computer. Georgette tried to stop her head spinning.
‘Not yet two.’
‘Really? She looked … old. I would have thought three at least.’
Georgette felt the shadow of doom hovering, chilling her.
‘And look here.’ Charmain zoomed in on the image. ‘This is a cross-section of the brain. This is not dissimilar to what you find in Alzheimer’s sufferers although I can’t see any actual lesions.’
‘Is there anything I might be able to use to reverse this?’
Charmain dropped her pencil on the desk and leaned back. ‘It’s not my field at all but let’s face it, if there was a cure for Alzheimer’s we’d know about it. But then, like I said, I don’t see lesions.’
‘I’m trying transfusions. The red cell count was very low.’
Charmain nodded, said, ‘Diet?’
‘Needle in a haystack but I’ve split the remainder into three groups and I’m trying different dietary combos.’
‘If I think of anything …’
Her cue to leave. She thanked Charmain.
‘I’ll probably be back soon.’ Vernon would not be much longer for this world.
‘A comparison will help.’
Georgette had just reached the lab when her phone rang. It was Holmes, excited.
‘He has something to do with art.’
A few minutes later, Holmes sat in front of Georgette’s lab computer on a Skype link with Benson who was at the command centre locked in a soundscape of constantly ringing phones. Holmes had directed Benson to the open the crime scene photos of Carmen Cavanagh’s living room.
‘Look at those paintings on the wall.’
‘Every ritzy apartment has expensive art,’ countered Benson.
‘Call up the photographs of the Zebra Club.’
Benson did. The first thing that struck Georgette now was the expansive murals.
‘Wouldn’t you say art was a feature of this room?’
‘True but again, every second club –’
‘Lucy Bassey worked at the museum as a restorer. You recall I smelled turpentine on her. I assumed that was to do with her work but what if that was from Noah?’
Benson was nodding. Holmes was seized by a fierce drive now.
‘Today I was not close enough to smell Scheer’s body but the attack seemed less premeditated. If he is an artist perhaps there is more turpentine, transferred to Scheer’s body or the room.’
‘Checking it now.’ Benson gestured to somebody, possibly Lipinski off-screen.
‘Gina Scaroldi’s apartment was plain as,’ said Benson, not as if he were pointscoring but pondering.
Holmes asked if they had identified Mat yet.
‘No. They’re trying but nobody has a surname on him let alone a photo. He lived on the street, crashed at halfway houses. The art angle might …’
Benson looked off-screen again. Georgette heard Lipinski’s voice but couldn’t make out what she was saying. Benson got up, leaving the screen focused on his chair. She thought she heard him curse. Then his face reappeared.
‘We’ve had a request out for any violent assaults, abductions or murders in the five boroughs. Greta says a report came in of a young woman, missing. Her friend says this morning she was going to meet up with a guy she met last night and then come to the café where the friend works for lunch. She never showed up, didn’t call and is not answering her phone.’
‘Maybe they’re taking in a movie or … other stuff,’ said Georgette.
‘What we figured. Except the friend’s report says this guy she was meeting is a street artist.’
23
‘Do you think she might still be alive?’ asked Georgette.
‘If she is, it will not be because of any action on my account.’
Holmes was even gloomier than the sky. They were standing in the crisp air looking up at the large painting of an elephant that adorned the wall of a building close to the Highbridge skate park. Crime-scene tape
surrounded the area and techs were beavering away. Benson and Lipinski had already interviewed the friends of the missing girl, Kate Odenhall, but they hadn’t got a particularly good description of the artist. He had been wearing a bandanna across the lower part of his face and it had been dark. Apparently after a short conversation he’d agreed to meet up with Kate, who had the morning off somewhere in Riverside Park. Regrettably, Kate’s friend did not know the exact meeting place.
Georgette was terrified for the girl. Her friend said the two of them looked out for each other and would call if they couldn’t make a meeting. Benson had checked hospitals and lockups just in case but there was no sign of Kate. He was trying to get a lock on her phone.
Holmes, as if he had considered his previous response and declared it mean-spirited, now added, ‘The fact that her body has not been found is encouraging. He is freed from his script now. The Picture Killer murdered on the spot leaving a picture. Noah – Mat – faithfully followed that, but not now. Now he can write his own history.’
You are a shadow of your former self, Holmes, he told himself, but you must still try. If you were brought back into this world for any reason it must have been to make a difference. Think. He returned to the same stumbling block. How had Scheer known to look for the book? Who had told him about Crimini d’Italia?
He pulled himself up. The first tug at his sleeve. And all of a sudden his frozen mind was moving again –
‘Holmes?’
He held a finger up to quiet Watson, moved off, mustn’t lose this thread. Scheer hadn’t been searching for Crimini d’Italia. No, he had been searching for Pasquale Ometti! Of course, it had to be … it was the only thing that made sense. He was about to yell for Georgette to call Benson but remembered she had already put the number in his phone.
He dialled now.
Benson answered immediately. ‘Yes?’
‘I think Mat may be related to Pasquale Ometti. Then he would know the story without needing the book. It would have been handed down.’ He met Georgette’s excited gaze and thought: just like you and John Watson. The past determines the present. ‘I think it wasn’t Mat told Scheer about this story but the other way around. Look for any Ometti in Boston or New York. Check Immigration –’