Tooley’s ex-wife stood beneath the boughs of a huge oak watching the funereal spectacle ten yards from the graveside. Her lips quivered as she tried hard to stymy a satisfied smirk.
The Catholic priest sang the funeral liturgy in a mad Irish brogue. His words quickening as the bearers lowered the coffin into the ground.
Earth to earth…
Dust to dust…
May God have mercy on Gerard’s soul…
Mourners leaving…
Casey hanging back as the mourners departed. Darting eyes. Leaning forward and spitting into the open grave. Manic laughter. ‘Rest in fuckin’ peace, Tooley, you smart ass son of a bitch…’
Johnson—aloof and untouchable—watched Casey. Indifference written in his face.
Coming to—brain befuddled by alcohol—Tooley sensed the presence of someone close. Dragged his head from the cushion and heard breathing.
Just like the others, once he had rolled the dice, Tooley had little chance.
Strong hands raised him up, dumped him on the floor. Collected him by the hair at the crown. Pulled back hard.
The skin across Tooley’s throat pulled as tight as the skin of a drum.
The unseen intruder drew breath. The sudden whoosh of air being displaced by a blade. Steel meeting flesh. The attacker threw Tooley to the floor. He landed with a dull thud. Terrible sucking echoed from the walls. The sound of Tooley choking on his own blood. Exultant, the attacker roared. Leered over the dying man. Experienced a malevolent grisly curiosity. It had taken less than a minute.
When it was over, the killer slid his foot under the lifeless body, gauged its weight and flipped it over. Tooley’s barely connected head cracked against the floorboards. The body settled.
The killer—mindful of careless mistakes—scanned the room. Arousal satiated, he turned and bounded for the door.
A laptop bag bulging with papers hung over his right shoulder.
75
‘Casey, this report is incomplete. There’s nothing from Tooley. Why?’ said Johnson, trying hard to control his irritation.
‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. The thing is, Tooley, is proving elusive. He’s not returning my calls, responding to text messages or email. I’ve left several messages on his answerphone,’ said Casey.
‘That’s as maybe, but it’s no excuse for shoddy work. I want a progress update on the Celtic case incorporating input from Tooley, on my desk first thing in the morning. Is that fully understood?’
‘Yes, sir, it is. I’ll go out and find the…’ Casey heard the line die. Johnson had cut the conversation short.
Casey turned towards Abrahamsen. ‘That’s all I need, Johnson, throwing his weight around. Try to raise that asshole, Tooley, again. Call him on his cell. Email. Text. Landline. Goddamn snail mail if you have to. I don’t care. I need to communicate with him urgently.’ Desperate for a cigarette and an opportunity for mindless chitchat with Fats in the basement car park, Casey lifted from the chair, collected his coat, and strode off towards the elevator.
***
Returning to his desk, Casey asked Abrahamsen, ‘Did you get anywhere?’
‘No. It would be easier raising the dead. I’ve called, emailed and texted. Left several phone messages. All without response. I’m holding back on the snail mail at the moment, boss,’ said Abrahamsen.
‘We’ll give him until mid-afternoon. If he doesn’t respond by then, we’ll go over to his place. I’ll drag a report out of him if I have to.’
76
By 1:00 p.m., Casey’s patience had evaporated.
‘Abrahamsen, go get a car. We need to locate, Tooley.’
‘Yes, boss, to the bat cave.’
‘Don’t you start. I’m not in the mood.’
The two detectives descended into the bowels of the precinct in the elevator.
‘Fats, you got a car I can use? Detective Specialist Tooley—saviour of the Ma’s Best baby food dynasty—has disappeared off the face of the goddamned Earth. You haven’t by any chance seen him, have you?’ said Casey.
‘Tooley, now there’s a dude. One of the strangest dudes I ever met. I haven’t seen Tooley for some considerable time. He doesn’t use pool cars much. Far as I know, he prefers public transport. Expect he’s one of those ECO types,’ said Fats, chewing on a biro, perched on a low bench outside the booth. ‘Take the black Chevy at the end of the row. It was serviced just yesterday. Runs real good,’ said Fats, nodding at a black sedan, handing Abrahamsen the keys.
* * *
Adhering to speed limits, the journey to Bushwick Park took twenty minutes. With Abrahamsen driving, they would arrive in half the time.
‘Do you always drive so fast?’ said Casey, gripping the grab handle.
‘No. Only Tooley, he’s pissing me off. Son of a bitch is so damn disrespectful. He has zero respect for teamwork. I wonder what excuse he has dreamed up this time? Something ought to be done about him. He’s a goddamn neanderthal,’ said Abrahamsen, staring out through the windshield.
Casey, surprised by Abrahamsen’s candour, said nothing. Kept his counsel. Tooley was a boil in need of lancing.
‘Here we are, boss. This is Tooley’s place,’ said Abrahamsen, pulling in against the kerb, applying the parking brake. ‘Nice house,’ he said, leaning over the console for a better view of the brick townhouse.
Abrahamsen scanned the elevation, noticed that the venetian blinds at the ground-floor windows, were closed.
‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.’
‘He’s probably still in bed,’ said Casey, reaching for the door. ‘Let’s go find out.’
Casey crossed the sidewalk, stepped onto the concrete step under the entry porch and rang the doorbell. Rang it again. After several minutes, he elected to call for assistance. Casey turned to Abrahamsen, said, ‘I’m worried. Get on the radio. Organise a break-in team with a door buster. Don’t take any crap. Emphasise the urgency.’
Casey buttoned up his raincoat, plunged his hands deep into the hip pockets. ‘When you’ve done that, come and find me. I’ll be across the street eating a bagel and drinking coffee. You want some?’ said Casey, nodding towards the deli across the street, half a block along the road.
‘Thanks, but no thanks. Diet,’ said Abrahamsen, patting his gut, reaching into the Chevy for the radio.
Life’s too short, thought Casey.
77
The break-in team took longer to arrive than Casey expected.
‘Were you guys held up?’ said Casey, unable to conceal his irritation.
‘We got here as quickly as we could,’ said the young lieutenant. ‘Couldn’t have got here any quicker.’
‘Yeah, whatever… This door, get it open. I’m freezing my balls off,’ said Casey, glowering at the Georgian-style door, willing it open.
The officer stepped forward. Took aim. Swung the enforcer at the lock. The door frame split at the lock. The door crashed in against the wall. Made a deep impression in the plaster.
The officer set the enforcer end up onto the ground. Turned to Casey. ‘All yours.’
‘Thanks,’ said Casey, moving past, stepping into the dark hallway, searching for the light switch.
‘Boss, the switch, maybe it’s on pull from the ceiling fan?’ said Abrahamsen, peering past Casey into the darkness. ‘Just an idea.’
Casey reached up. A cord brushed his fingers. ‘You’re right. I’ve got it,’ said Casey, pulling on the cord. A multitude of coloured light filled the hallway from a tiffany shade.
Casey stood in a spacious hallway decorated in a turn-of-the-century style: black and white chequerboard ceramic tiles to the floor, walls painted burgundy and magnolia. Ornate plaster dado railing ran central along the middle. To the left side of the hallway, a staircase led up to the first floor. At the rear, a door led, Casey assumed, to the kitchen. Lounge door on the right. Casey faced prints of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album covers. Casey thought the prints reflected p
erfectly, Tooley’s personality.
He pushed the lounge door open and revealed darkness. He stepped forward. Disappeared from view. ‘Keep back, while I find the switch.’
‘Open the window blinds, boss. The switch could be anywhere in these older houses,’ said Abrahamsen, pausing in the hallway.
From the lounge, Abrahamsen heard crashing followed by a mumbled curse.
‘You okay, boss?’
‘Damn it. I’ve twisted my goddamned ankle. Something on the floor … not sure what,’ said Casey, straining up. ‘One second … I’ll open the … blinds.’
Casey found and pulled the cord. The room flooded with daylight. A scene of bloody murder was revealed. Tooley’s lifeless body lay in a pool of blood across the hardwood floor. Throat slashed.
The two detectives stood over the body open-mouthed.
‘Just what I need. My report, it’s just got much more complicated,’ said Casey.
78
Tooley’s murder sent shock waves through the entire department. To lose any officer was terrible, but Tooley’s sadistic murder in his own home was unprecedented. It demanded retribution.
The modus operandi bore striking similarities to the Celtic cross killings. Had the killer struck again? Notably, the post-death desecration of the corpse—the signature Celtic cross—was missing. Tooley’s involvement in the case had been kept a close-guarded secret.
Why had he been targeted?
Tooley had many enemies. Had solved many homicides. Had failed to solve many others. Working on high-profile cases—often highlighted by the media—Tooley was a tempting target for the criminal underworld.
Johnson concluded quickly that The Celtic Cross Killer had struck again within hours of the discovery of the murdered Tooley. ‘Casey shut up and listen.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Christ’s sake. What now?
‘I consider it highly probable that The Celtic Cross Killer knew Tooley was working on the case,’ said Johnson, crashing a clenched fist on the glass-topped table.
‘I don’t know what to think. I try not to jump to premature conclusions, sir. I prefer to keep an open mind.’
‘Let’s go over the facts. CSI haven’t come up with anything other than the DNA from an unidentified suspect. The killer is forensically aware and appears knowledgeable about modern policing methods. I believe the killings are premeditated. I want Tooley’s murder added to the investigation. I’m extending your remit. Keep an open mind, yes, but focus upon the similarities, too. Despite his foibles, Tooley was a good man. Find his killer, Casey. And find him quickly. I’m putting all the resources of the Department at your disposal. Allow whatever overtime you think necessary.’
Johnson stalled before continuing. ‘Establish Tooley’s movements in the hours before he was killed. I know you were experiencing difficulty contacting him. Involve the media.’ Johnson stalled, surveyed the city. ‘Do whatever it takes, Michael. Somebody out there knows something. I’m sorry, if you think I’ve been tough with you about Tooley in the past. I appreciate more than most that he could be a loose cannon and difficult to deal with. Whatever, his faults, Tooley didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Casey, rising to leave.
79
‘Thank you for your time, Ms Wilson, this won’t take long. May I call you, Marilyn?’ said Casey.
‘You may. I’d prefer it if you would. Come on through to the lounge. It’s more comfortable in there. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘No, thanks. This won’t take long. I just need to ask you a few questions, that’s all,’ said Casey, taking a seat opposite Marilyn. Casey shuffled to the edge of the cushion, said, ‘I understand you had a date with Detective Tooley the night he was murdered?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Marilyn, blowing her nose on a white cotton handkerchief. ‘It would be an exaggeration to call it a date. I’d say it was more of a meeting.’
‘What was your meeting about? Please, take your time,’ said Casey, with a sympathetic smile.
She blew her nose; dabbed away, tears. ‘I work at the Central Library. That’s where I first met Gerard.’
‘I see.’
‘I was helping him with research. Archive searches. Background checks. That kind of thing. I enjoyed it. Gerard was such a lovely man. He was a gentleman.’
‘Okay. And?’ said Casey.
‘And, several weeks ago when he came in he mentioned his current case. I must stress at no point did he go into detail. He was very discreet. He talked about his “hunches.” He gave me the names of four gangsters from the thirties,’ said Marilyn.
Casey nodded. ‘This must be very upsetting for you. Please, take a minute.’
‘It is. Yes … well… Gerard asked me to put together a list of persons of Irish descent on the register of deaths in Brooklyn between 1928 and 1935. He suggested I focus upon persons between eighteen and thirty years of age, dying without prior hospitalisation. He had a theory that a historic event may have motivated the killer.’
‘Okay,’ said Casey. ‘And did your research uncover anything of substance?’
‘Yes. Several names met the search criteria; two with the same surname, O’Shea. I researched the genealogy of the O’Shea family. My niece, Caroline is an amateur genealogist. She prepared a report for me.’ Marilyn hesitated. ‘Oh dear, I hope I’ve not gotten Gerard into trouble, have I?’
‘No. No. Did you keep a copy of the list and report?’ said Casey, leaning forward. Marilyn moved back. Reclaimed her personal space.
‘Yes, I did. I have a copy,’ she said, recovering a large brown envelope from her handbag, handing it to Casey. ‘Will it help? To be perfectly honest, I thought it was a dead end. I don’t believe he had time to follow up on anything.’
‘You’re probably right. We’ll study the contents with interest. Follow up on potential leads. I must insist upon your complete discretion,’ said Casey, with an officious tone. ‘Please, don’t talk to anyone about this.’
‘I won’t. Just find his killer. And when you do, lock him up and throw away the key. I’m heartbroken,’ said Marilyn breaking down.
Casey secreted the envelope into an inside pocket, thanked Marilyn and left the grieving woman alone with her thoughts.
80
Tooley’s funeral was held at St John the Baptist Roman Catholic Church. Forty mourners huddled in silent contemplation on the front two pews in the cavernous, freezing church. NYPD work colleagues including Chief Johnson and Michael Casey, swelled the congregation.
Casey saw Marilyn enter. Pointed her out to Johnson. Explained her relationship with Tooley.
Marilyn looked broken. Destroyed. Perhaps, Tooley had meant more to Marilyn than he had first thought? The burnt acridity of incense hung thickly in the air.
Casey hated being in church. It brought back bad memories of being forced to attend mass and holy communion as a child. The repulsive odour of nicotine from the priest’s stained fingers as he set the communion wafer against his lips. The interminable boredom of never-ending eulogies for men, who in life didn’t deserve a second glance. Incense burning his eyes and throat.
The previous day, Casey had tried hard to excuse himself from the funeral. His request was met with contempt from the Chief.
‘It’s absolutely out of the question, Casey. You will attend. That’s an order,’ barked Johnson. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Need I remind you, Tooley, was working on your case when he was killed? Show some respect, man. The Department must be seen to show its solidarity, whilst respecting the family’s right to privacy. It’s a difficult balance. You’re going. Let that be the end of it.’
Tooley had been a Roman Catholic and as such a full mass prefaced the funeral. It was a long and tedious affair. Rising up from a kneeling position, Casey massaged stiff legs, noticed a solitary figure slip in through the door and disappear into the shadows. Recognised Antonio Pecarro.
Casey and Johnson stepped out into the crisp brilli
ance of an icy winter morning. They drew long breaths. Rubbed hands. Jogged on the spot. Stood back and let the mourners pass.
Johnson felt a hand land on his shoulder. He turned. Antonio Pecarro stepped forward. Took his place besides Casey.
Johnson leaned forward, glared. ‘Oh, it’s you. Good morning, Pecarro. I’d forgotten that you worked with Tooley on the Ma’s Best extortion case,’ said Johnson, as the sombre mourners filed past. ‘Have you come to pay your respects?’
‘I have. And you’re right,’ Pecarro nodded, ‘we did work together.’
The trio stepped in line behind the mourners. Ambled over to the graveside. Stood in line alongside one another. Pecarro leaned toward Johnson. Said in a low voice, ‘Tooley was a friend and a fine officer. He didn’t deserve to die like he did.’
The bearers settled the coffin on the ground beside the freshly dug grave.
‘For once, Pecarro, we can agree on something,’ said Johnson, just above a murmur, pausing, pressing down shoulder epaulettes lifted by the breeze.
Pecarro gritted his teeth. Tried hard to maintain his composure. Nodded an acknowledgement to Casey.
The coffin was lowered into the grave. The priest started to speak.
Once the burial was over, the mourners started to go their separate ways.
Casey turned towards Johnson. ‘Sir, I’d like to talk to Pecarro, privately. Five minutes ought to do it. I’ll see you back at the car?’
‘You’ve got five minutes, Casey. I’ve a very busy schedule for the rest of the day,’ said Johnson, marching off.
The Celtic Cross Killer Page 15