The Celtic Cross Killer

by Keiron Cosgrave

  ‘I hope you’re onto something, Gerard. Me … I need coffee. I’m freezing my nuts off,’ said Casey, bounding away in the direction of the car.

  53

  Casey’s first progress email to Chief Johnson was concise. Casey hoped the briefest summary would suffice. Despite his legendary impatience, even Johnson wouldn’t expect an instant breakthrough.

  He provided several narrative paragraphs and a detailed synopsis. It had been a long day. Casey read through his bullets points once more. Stalled on the sentences mentioning Tooley.

  • Detective Specialist Tooley has visited both crime scenes accompanied by Detective Casey and Detective Second Grade, Abrahamsen. Tooley offered useful “insights” into the killer’s background. N.B. Most of Tooley’s insights are without scientific basis.

  • Tooley believes there is a link between the victims and the killer. To date, there are no family, professional or social links identified.

  • Tooley’s insights—while potentially useful—will not determine the future strategic direction of the investigation. I have instructed the team to adopt a balanced, fact-based, approach.

  • After visiting the crime scenes, Tooley was dropped off at the library in Brooklyn.

  Casey levitated his hand over the send button. The Chief would have his email within seconds. He stabbed SEND.

  Alone in the incident room, he leaned back, swallowed a mouthful of black coffee and gazed across the photographs taken at the crime scenes. His eyes settled on a six-by-twelve colour photograph of the second victim, Franco Ricci. The bloody Celtic cross contrasted vividly against Ricci’s deathly white skin. The killer’s signature cut much deeper than the first murder.

  Casey experienced a twang of guilt. Knew he’d crossed a line. Kept secret a potentially significant line of enquiry on an ill-conceived hunch.

  Casey reached for his cell, tabbed to contacts, selected his brother Sean’s number. After four rings the line connected.

  ‘Sean, that you?’ said Casey, through a wall of static. ‘It’s a bad line. Can you hear me? It’s me, Michael.’

  ‘Yeah, I hear you. Ciao, Michael,’ said Sean, with a surprised, upbeat inflection to his voice. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hey, you sound good. How about you and I meet for a catch up? Go for a beer. Not, I hasten to add a session; just a quiet drink some place. Only, I’d like a chat. It’s been a while since we last caught up.’

  After a long pause, Sean said, ‘Yeah. Why not? I’ll introduce you to Sinead. How about we go out for a meal?’

  ‘Sinead?’

  ‘You don’t know do you? I’m in a relationship. Have been for several months. I’m a reformed man. Finally, got my shit together. What’s more, I’m off the drink. I’ve taken the pledge. I’m on a health kick, too. Sinead, she’s a good influence on me. You’ll love her. She’s class.’

  ‘Wow… Well… Err… That’s great,’ stammered Michael, taken aback.

  ‘Eh, don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘Sorry, only…’

  ‘Only … what?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just…’

  ‘Stop apologising all the freaking time. I’ve told you before, it’s annoying.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, you have… Err, this meal… I’ll text some options through. Text me back with your preferred date and time. I’ll book. How does that sound?’

  ‘Great. I’ll look forward to it,’ said Sean.

  ‘Okay. Bye…’ said Casey, shocked at the vibrancy of his usually morose brother’s voice.

  Collecting his raincoat from the back of the chair, shaking his head in disbelief, Casey considered his brother. One thing was certain: Sean was always full of surprises.

  Irrespective, Casey needed to catch up with him. A question ricocheted around his brain.

  It was a question that demanded an answer.

  An answer, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

  54

  Tooley entered the Central Library on Grand Army Plaza as the clock struck six. He contemplated a long evening ahead.

  Over the last year, the library had adopted a more modern approach to opening hours. Revised opening was between 9:00 a.m. and 9:00 p.m. The library had won several major awards and visitor numbers were up. Tooley loved libraries. Loved the Central.

  The Central was a social destination to while away the hours in near silent contemplation. The library contained over a million books, magazines and multimedia titles. It was an invaluable resource for Brooklyn’s burgeoning population. Free internet access had saved Tooley hundreds of dollars.

  From above, the plan shape of The Central library represented an open book: two wings positioned around a central spine. Tooley passed through the 50-foot high main entry at the centre of the spine. In desperate need of a rejuvenating coffee, he rushed across the vast expanse of smooth marble to the cafeteria. Only two other customers occupied tables, both absorbed in recent withdrawals.

  ‘Large Americano, please,’ he said, scanning the counter, collecting a packet of chocolate cookies. ‘And these, please, miss.’

  The server scanned the cookies. ‘That’ll be three dollars fifty, honey,’ she said, handing Tooley his order.

  Tooley made his way over to a table concealed from view behind a trolley piled high with trays, settled his briefcase on the floor and flopped into the chair. Tooley enjoyed anonymity.

  In his mid-fifties, Tooley had reached the stage in his life when all he wanted to do was blend in. His dress sense reflected it. His wardrobe comprised threadbare tweed sports jackets, faded chambray shirts and numerous pairs of green moleskin trousers. The look was completed by scuffed tan brogues. Overweight, with unkempt curly brown hair and five o’clock shadow, Tooley exuded the persona of a scholarly academic.

  Tooley sipped coffee. Got comfortable in the chair. The day’s tension dissolved. He gazed towards the main entrance. After a while, he reached into a raincoat pocket and retrieved a notebook. Flicked through the pages. Scan read his notes. Studied them. Considered the victim’s names underlined and capitalised.

  FRANCO RICCI

  ERNEST COSTA

  Costa and Ricci, he repeated numerous times. Costa and Ricci… Costa and Ricci… A momentary notion of association flitted through the deepest recess of his mind, yet as soon as it had come, it was gone. Ricci and Costa, he replayed the names in a different order. Struggled to reveal the connection. Put the names out of his mind.

  Checking for CCTV cameras, Tooley extracted a set of copy photographs from his briefcase and placed them face down on the table. Glanced around. Flicked them over. Revealed the savagery of the crime scenes.

  Imagined being there. Watching the killer at work. A firm hand making a long vertical slice along the spine. Those same hands spinning the knife with a ferocious flick of the wrist, cutting a delicate circle bisecting the cross. The killer savouring every incision.

  Collecting the photographs, Tooley settled them against the notebook’s spine. Closed it. Took care not to bend the edges. Returned the notebook to his briefcase.

  Given that the local history section was located on the second floor, Tooley took the elevator. Wondered why anyone would elect to take the stairs?

  The middle-aged librarian acknowledged Tooley with a bright smile. ‘Hello, Detective Tooley,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to see you again so soon. Business, or pleasure?’ Bright, wide eyes fixed Tooley above reading glasses.

  ‘Business. Murderous business,’ said Tooley in a Christoper Lee voice, dragging a finger across his throat. ‘Any chance of a desk with internet and microfiche access? I need to review local newspapers from the early 1900s to 1950. I’m researching surnames. Hoping to find connections.’

  ‘There is. Can I help? I’ll check the electoral register if you like? Two heads are better than one.’

  ‘If you don’t mind?’ said Tooley, without hesitation. ‘The surnames I have are Ricci and Costa. I guess, since they’re quite common there’ll be hundreds on the register.’ />
  ‘We’ll find out soon enough won’t we?’ The librarian pushed the reading glasses up and along her nose. ‘Now, let’s see… Desk position nine is available. The internet will last one hour. Let me know if you need more,’ said the obliging librarian.

  ‘Thanks. Sorry, I’m useless with names. Your name, it’s slipped my mind,’ said Tooley, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

  ‘That’s all right. I’m Marilyn.’

  ‘Nice to see you again, Marilyn.’

  Within an hour, Marilyn had completed the analysis of the electoral register.

  ‘All done,’ she said, handing Tooley a half-inch wad of A4 sized paper. ‘As you suggested, the name Costa is quite common in Brooklyn. Did you know that people of Italian descent represented around fifteen percent of Brooklyn’s population from 1900 to 1950?’

  ‘I didn’t know that, no.’

  ‘Today, almost three hundred and fifty thousand persons of Italian heritage live in Brooklyn.’

  ‘Thank you. This is great.’ said Tooley, placing a hand on the pile.

  ‘My pleasure. It was interesting. I had fun. Have you made progress, Detective Tooley? Found anything of particular interest?’ asked Marilyn, in a soft and encouraging tone.

  ‘Not yet, but I will…’

  55

  The security guard ushered Tooley out of the library at 9:00 p.m. Having found nothing to link the surnames Costa and Ricci, his confidence took a hit.

  Driving home to his Canarsie basement apartment in his beat-up ’93 Ford Taurus, Tooley pondered whether he was on the right track. Dismissing his doubts, with a sigh, he was certain of one thing: he was damn hungry.

  Back at his apartment—takeout curry heavy in his stomach—Tooley collapsed onto the bed. Sleep came quick.

  As the blade met skin, Tooley woke with a jolt. He bolted upright and lay back against the pillows. He sucked a long breath, flicked sleep from the corner of his eyes, turned on one side and looked for the time. Three-thirty a.m. glowed brightly in neon green in the darkness. Waking, a cacophony of images flashed through Tooley’s rising consciousness. He remembered a sharp-featured face contorted with rage laughing manically just inches from his own. Bared, yellowing teeth and mad eyes closing in. Spidery fingers firm around his throat. Squeezing hard. A burning sensation deep inside his chest…

  Tooley accepted a new case was a catalyst for nightmares. He’d learned to live with them. Come to believe they provided valuable insight. Considered them an essential part of the tableau of understanding.

  Reaching into the refrigerator for milk, Tooley recollected the electoral list prepared by the very obliging librarian, Marilyn. Wondered how obliging she might be? Reproached himself for having such thoughts. Where, he pondered, had he put the damn printouts? The least he could do was read them.

  Marilyn mentioned Costa was a common surname in Brooklyn. Each list contained over two hundred and fifty people; equal numbers of males and females. Tooley separated the Costa lists and set them aside. Elected to study the Ricci printouts. Each of the ten Ricci lists contained thirty names. It was a much more manageable exercise. Tooley planned to interview Franco Ricci’s widow, Sophia, and any living relatives. Hoped to establish—as best he could—the Ricci family tree.

  56

  Preoccupied, Michael Casey stepped out into the corridor, halted and buttoned up his jacket. It was 7:00 p.m. and the investigation was going nowhere. He dragged up his collar. Looked to his cell phone.

  From nowhere, Chief Johnson arrived behind Casey and cleared his throat. Casey bolted. Slipped the cell phone into a pocket.

  ‘You ignoring me, Casey?’

  ‘No, sir, I was answering a text. I didn’t see you walk up … that’s all.’

  ‘I signalled to you from my door.’

  ‘Sorry, Chief, I never saw you. I’ve a lot on my mind. This case—The Celtic Cross Killer—it’s taking up a lot of my time, sir,’ said Casey, repressing a frown of annoyance. ‘Nothing I can’t handle, though. The thing is, sir, I’ve got reservations about Tooley. He’s not a team player.’

  ‘What do you mean? Explain yourself.’

  ‘His manner—his methods—leave a lot to be desired. For example…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Last night he left a message on my message service instructing me to meet him at nine o’clock at the Ricci residence - the home of the second victim.’

  ‘There’s nothing unusual in that, Casey.’

  ‘Sir, the message was left at 4:30 a.m. It begs the question, does Tooley think he’s leading the investigation?’

  Johnson’s brow creased into a concentrated frown. ‘You are, Casey. Don’t get hung up on Tooley. Everyone knows his methods are unorthodox. What’s indisputable is, he gets the job done. In my day, the science of criminal psychology was unheard of. Consider his input supplementary to your own. Apprehending a killer is a team effort. Tooley gets results…’ Johnson’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Sorry I can’t stand here all day discussing Gerard Tooley, I’ve things to do. Keep your foot on the gas. Bring Tooley into the fold. Communicate more. Massage his ego if you have to.’

  Johnson turned on his heels and left.

  He isn’t getting results at my expense, that I do know, thought Casey.

  57

  ‘Abrahamsen, did you speak with Mrs Ricci?’ said Casey, struggling to complete the computer’s complex closedown procedure, having printed off an aide-mémoire of the questions he wanted to ask Sophia Ricci.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Abrahamsen. ‘She’s expecting us at nine thirty.’

  ‘Okay. Give Tooley a call. Tell him we’ll meet him there. Advise him of the change of plan. He’s expecting a nine o’clock meeting. Tell him it’s the earliest Sophia Ricci could make it. And while you’re at it, ask him what his plans are for the rest of the day,’ said Casey.

  ‘Will do, boss,’ Abrahamsen said, scanning the contact directory pinned to the partition.

  Casey’s cell bleeped showing a text message.

  C u at Philly Steakhouse Jan 20, eight p.m… thanks for the invite Sean & Sinead x

  Jesus Christ, thought Casey. My errant brother coupled up. And the son of a bitch is taking the initiative… A kiss… He’s texted a goddamned kiss…

  Half an hour later, Casey and Abrahamsen arrived at the Ricci’s apartment block. The parked the car beside Tooley’s battered Ford Taurus. Casey placed the palm of his hand on the Taurus’s crumpled bonnet. The bonnet was warm.

  58

  Responding to a knock on the door, a pale-faced Sophia Ricci welcomed Casey and Abrahamsen with empty eyes.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Ricci.’

  ‘Ugh, is it? I’m afraid, for me at least, good mornings are a thing of the past. Detective Tooley is already here.’ Sophia Ricci turned and looked to Tooley seated in the dead man’s favourite armchair. An empty cup stood on the table before Tooley. ‘Come in. Take a seat.’

  They entered. Sat opposite Sophia Ricci.

  ‘This must be a very difficult time. I hope Detective Tooley has helped in some small way,’ said Casey, rounding his gaze to Tooley. ‘Morning, Gerard. Been here long?’

  ‘Half an hour or thereabouts. The early bird catches the worm. Mrs Ricci’s has been very helpful. Before we go any further, I’ll summarise our discussions. Is that okay, Mrs Ricci,’ said Tooley, recognising the irked inflection in Casey’s voice.

  ‘Fine by me, Detective Tooley. I really don’t have the strength to go over it again,’ said Sophia Ricci.

  ‘In summary, Mrs Ricci provided the names of Franco’s living relatives, resident in the US. I’ve noted names and contact details. I’ve also explained to Mrs Ricci how useful it would be to understand Franco’s family history. My hunch, and I must stress it’s only a hunch, is something connects the killer to the victims,’ said Tooley, the frustration in Casey’s face was obvious.

  ‘Thank you, Gerard… That’s very perceptive of you. Since, you’ve taken up most of Mrs Ricci’s
morning already, we’ll continue the discussion back at the precinct. Let Mrs Ricci get some rest. There’s just one question I’d like to ask Mrs Ricci, before we go.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Is there any reason Franco’s relatives will be reluctant to assist us in our enquiries?’ said Casey.

  ‘None that I’m aware of, no.’

  ‘Okay. That’s good to know. That’ll be all for now. Thank you for your time. I appreciate it. I’m afraid these things take time. I promise, we’ll find your husband’s killer.’

  Outside, Casey took Tooley by the arm, said, ‘Tooley, my car, right now! Abrahamsen, wait here.’

  Once ensconced in the car, Casey swivelled to face Tooley. ‘I scheduled that interview to start at nine thirty and you damn well know it. I reckon you were in there at least an hour before we arrived. That right?’

  Tooley shrugged, gazed out of the door glass.

  ‘Don’t ignore me!’

  Tooley looked at Casey, guilt etched across his face. ‘You’re right. Guilty as charged,’ said Tooley. ‘I arrived an hour ago.’

  ‘I knew it. Never do that again. If you do, you’re off the case. Capiche?’

  ‘Capiche.’

  ‘Good. Work with me Tooley, not against me. It’s time we got back to the office. We need to get things moving on that list,’ said Casey, opening the passenger door for Abrahamsen.

  Five minutes of tense silence passed.

  ‘I apologise,’ mumbled Tooley. ‘I promise to tow the line.’

  ‘Make sure you do.’

  ‘You need to know something,’ said Tooley.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Analysis of the list won’t take long.’

  ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘It’s only has two names.’