by Alex Barclay
‘Not necessarily, no,’ said Joe.
‘I don’t want to make things worse for her. Even though I haven’t done anything… just, the only weird thing that night was Ethan told me… that he loved me.’
Joe frowned. ‘What? And you hadn’t seen him in how long? A year and a half?’
‘Yeah. He said he was just calling to say he loved me.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘I was shocked. I mean, he sounded pretty normal except for what he was actually saying to me. That was it. I didn’t know what to say back. I mean, he’s married, I heard he has a lovely wife and daughter and… I don’t know. I mean, I don’t love him. Didn’t. I said that to him. I said about his wife and that I’d moved on.’ She shrugged. ‘Now I feel terrible. For him. For his wife. I’m guessing she has no idea. Do you think… I mean, he didn’t kill himself or anything?’
‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Had he hinted about his feelings when you met at your brother’s funeral?’
‘No,’ said Clare. ‘He was really sweet to me. But that’s Ethan, he just is. There was no major interaction between us, no plans to meet up, I didn’t encourage him, nothing.’
‘Is there anyone you could think of that had a problem with Ethan? Was he ever in trouble?’
‘It was eight years ago when we broke up. But before then, Ethan was, like, normal, just a nice guy. I never saw him even have an argument with anyone. He was low-profile, you know what I mean? He’d be the last person I would think would end up murdered.’
Rufo was sitting at his desk pressing keys on his cell phone when Danny and Joe walked in. He held up his left hand to silence them. They looked at each other. Joe shrugged. Rufo spent another few minutes focused on the tiny handset. He was smiling to himself. He hit one last key and put the phone down.
‘Texting,’ he said. ‘What a great way to communicate. You should check it out.’
‘I lived in Ireland, remember?’ said Joe. ‘It’s nearly taken over from drinking.’
‘Who were you texting?’ said Danny.
Rufo looked up at him. ‘None of your business, Markey. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?’
Joe spoke. ‘I’m thinking of setting up a meeting with Reuben Maller in the Eastern District, get some sort of profile worked out on this perp…’
‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Rufo. ‘As long as we’re all clear it’s his friendly assistance you’re after.’
Joe nodded. ‘I’ll see what comes out of the profile. If there’s anything we think he should stick around for, anyone he’d like to interview, we’ll see, but you know Maller, he’s a good guy, he does his thing, then disappears back-’
‘Under his rock,’ said Danny.
Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Do you ever think it might be you?’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ said Danny.
‘You know? The whole world’s an asshole or a dickhead. Did you ever think it might be you?’
‘Ladies, take it outside,’ said Rufo.
Anna stood outside Bay Ridge subway station, searching through her huge navy bag. She found her white headphones, but as she pulled them out, she realized there was no iPod attached.
‘ Merde.’ She remembered seeing it in the speaker dock in the kitchen. ‘ Merde.’
She checked her watch and thought about running back home for it, but instead, she forced herself to walk into the heat of the station and down the steps. Raised voices echoed up and when she reached them, she saw a tall well-dressed woman push a scruffy teenage boy by the shoulders, slamming him against the ticket machine. He spat in her face. She threw money at him and walked away. Anna had no interest in working out what had happened, she kept her head down and moved as far away from him as she could. It annoyed her that her heart rate shot up. It happened too easily, any confrontation, any sudden movements, any loud noises. When she had her iPod on, Mozart made her feel that she could drift everywhere untouched by her surroundings, a gentle soundtrack for a different place, a different set of scenes.
She swiped her Metrocard and waited on the platform, glancing over at the woman in the suit, keeping her where she could see her. The woman was tweaking – coming down off crystal meth, radiating crazy. Anna could hear the young guy behind her shouting – ‘Crazy bitch! She took my money, the crazy bitch!’ Then, ‘No! I got it here! Crazy bitch threw it back at me!’
Nervous energy ran through the crowd. The woman walked away swinging her briefcase, her head held high, her own special tune playing in her head. The R train pulled in and everyone moved on. It was rush-hour cramped and Anna, small and slight, got pushed into a tight spot against a huge student who smiled an apology down at her. She smiled back.
For the first part of the journey, everyone was focused on their books and newspapers or talking to their friends. Anna stared through the window at nothing. Then the subway doors slid open at Cortlandt Street and stayed open. Panic struck up in her again. Announcements boomed from the speakers on the platform. No-one could hear them. People started to look up, then around at everyone else.
Anna felt a sickening urge to push her way through and burst onto the platform, but was held back by the attention that would attract, everyone staring at this women who was alarmed because a train stopped for two minutes longer than it was supposed to. She could feel the sweat soaking into the fabric at her back, the heat of the platform, of the people around her, of their breath. The doors slid closed and the train started up again. She breathed out and talked to herself all the way to her stop, telling herself she was stupid, then brave, then irrational, then strong, then stupid. She almost ran up the steps into Union Square, relieved to hit air that wasn’t suffocating her. She peeled her top away from her skin and let the light breeze cool her. ‘ I can’t do this,’ she said to herself. ‘ There is no way I can do this.’
She straightened up and looked across at Barnes amp; Noble and felt the pull of a morning spent drinking coffee and flicking through design books of faraway houses on stilts in the ocean or on beaches or cliffsides. A shiver ran up her spine. She took a deep breath and walked towards the W Hotel. She stood at the window and saw everyone gathered in the early morning darkness of the bar. She recognized the back of Marc Lunel’s head, his long, black shiny hair, the red tab on his Prada shoes. She saw four models, two makeup artists, two hair stylists, the intern from Vogue Living… everyone waiting for her guidance. She saw her reflection in the glass, her tired eyes, her downturned mouth, the sheen of sweat on her forehead. She turned away. She started walking. And she hailed the first cab that passed by.
When Joe got back to his desk, a white envelope lay there, stamped and addressed to him. Most of the mail he got was yellow-envelope inter-departmental. He picked it up. It was light but bulky; cheap paper with no return address. He grabbed a ruler from his drawer and sliced through it. The thin white pages were folded in half and sprang open, both sides covered in scrawled writing and short sentences: Dear Detective Lucchesi, The noise this morning was almost unbearable. I could try to create it in letters and words. I got out of bed. I wouldn’t know how. Two directions. And it’s agony. I get anxious sometimes if I do. And actually what I need is peace to find my way through everything. There was no point in just laying there. One forward, one back. I made coffee and fixed myself scrambled eggs. I still know how to do that. I’m not sure which is harder. But it was loud. Not everyone else does. I don’t think I can figure it all out without quiet. Bass and drums. There are times when I’m nearly there…
Joe paused, rubbing his temples. He flipped the page over and kept reading. On it went, a random series of thoughts and the vague sense that there was a story inside, one that only the writer knew. It was a complexity of simple facts, observations, theories and descriptions. What Joe read on the sixth page made it relevant to him. Vertically, in the right-hand margin was written: Lying, badly beaten. Lowry is the result. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently.
Something cold sh
ot up the back of Joe’s neck. He scanned quickly through the pages that followed, through writings about rooms and stories and calculators and theatres. It ended after sixteen pages, signed off namelessly: More will come. Captured at the right time.
‘Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘What the fuck was that?’ He called the others over.
‘Guys, I just got a letter about Ethan Lowry.’
‘A letter?’ said Danny. ‘From who?’
‘A randomer,’ said Joe.
‘Who’s Arrandoma?’ said Rencher.
‘Randomer. A random person. Person unknown. It’s something I picked up from one of Shaun’s friends in Ireland.’
‘OK, what’s this randomer saying?’ said Rencher.
‘A little and a lot,’ said Joe.
‘Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got,’ said Danny.
Joe ignored him and looked down at the letter. ‘OK, so we got a lot of information on exactly where the salt is in the kitchen for when the guy is microwaving his eggs in the morning, a bunch of other stuff about what he likes to do – major detail there…
‘Did he sign it?’ said Rencher.
‘Yeah, sure he did,’ said Danny, ‘with his address too, that’s why we’re all sitting around here, trying to figure out who could have sent it.’
‘Yeah, I meant with anything-’
‘What? Like, From the killer…?’ said Danny.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Rencher.
‘Shut the fuck up all of you,’ said Joe. ‘Let me read this out to you.’ He read through the letter and waited in the silence that followed.
‘Are we taking this seriously?’ said Rencher.
‘I think we should be,’ said Joe.
‘But “ lying badly beaten ” – you could get that from a media report, that’s no insider information there,’ said Rencher.
Joe looked down again at the letter and shrugged. ‘I think there’s something in this. Let’s just take it that there is.’
‘“ More will come, captured at the right time ”,’ said Danny. ‘More victims?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Or more letters?’
‘Maybe,’ said Danny.
‘I mean, what is the point of this letter?’ said Martinez.
‘Someone is reaching out,’ said Rencher.
‘But are they trying to help?’ said Cullen. ‘Are they giving us any information?’
Joe glanced down at the pages. ‘I think somewhere in here there’s information. I think they’re trying.’
‘Seriously, could it be from the perp?’ said Rencher.
‘Doesn’t sound like a psycho, but then, “ Lowry is the result. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently ”.’
‘Yeah,’ said Joe. ‘That could be talking about anything. I don’t know. Look, I’ll go ahead, copy this a few times, if anyone has any ideas, get back to me.’
‘Will Question Documents be able to tell us more?’ said Rencher.
‘Probably not a whole lot,’ said Joe, ‘Looking at this, the paper, the envelope, the pen don’t look like anything special. If we get another letter in, they can tell us if it’s from the same guy. And if there’s any problem when we track him down, they can use samples of his writing to match it up. That’s about it. First thing is to get it to Forensics, see if we can get some prints.’ He pointed to his notebook. ‘I mean doesn’t whoever wrote it get that it’s pretty fucking easy to trace? I’ve got the time and place where it was mailed right here from the stamp. I’m going to get in touch with the post office, see if we can get any video. Bobby, can you pass me the Ortis file?’
‘Sure,’ said Bobby, handing it to him.
The others were talking among themselves as Joe slowly started to flip through the pages.
‘You got the VICAP form?’ said Joe. He looked up at Bobby.
‘For Ortis?’
‘Yeah,’ said Joe.
Bobby shrugged. ‘I guess I didn’t fill one out.’
‘You didn’t fill out the VICAP form, Bobby?’ Joe’s voice rang loud in the room.
‘Yeah, like, you fill them out every time?’ Bobby glanced around at everyone. ‘Come on, a hundred bullshit questions that are no use when, like, the whole fucking country isn’t filling them out too? Everyone knows that. Spending hours answering questions when I could be out on the street getting somewhere?’
‘So you don’t see how making a link here might have helped Ethan Lowry?’
Bobby snorted.
‘And to answer your question, yeah, I did always fill out the form,’ said Joe. ‘And I still do…’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Bobby.
‘Nothing,’ said Joe. ‘If I’m working with a squad detective and they haven’t filled one out, I have to do it for them.’ Joe was looking down, his tone neutral.
Danny got up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘On that VICAP bombshell-’
Nervous laughter broke out, but died away just as quickly.
William Aneto’s mother Carmen lived above the grocery store she owned on 116th Street in East Harlem. Martinez had rung the bell, but there was no answer. The door was freshly painted bright green with a gold knocker he slammed against the wood.
‘Nice smell,’ said Danny, glancing into the store. He reached out to ring the doorbell again.
Martinez slapped his hand away and did it himself. ‘This is my show.’
Mrs Aneto opened the door and gave them a weary look. She was a small woman in her early fifties, dressed in a navy blue suit and low heels. Her hair was held neatly in a bun at the base of her neck. She wore no makeup. Martinez greeted her in Spanish, introducing himself and Danny.
She stared at Martinez. ‘You must be the token guy,’ she said.
He frowned.
‘Match the skin of the detective to the skin of the victim,’ she said.
Martinez turned back to her and spoke again in Spanish. She gave a defeated smile and led them in, up a narrow flight of stairs into a small apartment.
The living room was well worn and looked like the centre of entertainment for Mrs Aneto. There were women’s magazines on the sofa, two books balanced on the arm, a tray with a teapot and one cup on it. A bowl at the centre of the coffee table was filled with candy. The TV was widescreen and behind it, there were tall shelves of DVD cases and at the bottom, rows and rows of cassettes with white stickers and handwritten titles.
Mrs Aneto sat down in a high-backed armchair and put the footstool in front of it to one side. Danny and Martinez sat side by side on the sofa. Martinez leaned forward, resting his forearm on his left knee. He spoke in Spanish. ‘The night your son died, you said when he called you it was to say goodnight. Did he say anything else?’
‘Let’s not be rude to our white guest,’ she said and switched to English. ‘Why are you asking me this now?’
‘Because there have been some new developments in the investigation and-’
‘What kind of new developments?’
‘We believe there may be another victim.’
Her eyes were wide. ‘Was the victim white?’
‘Yes,’ said Martinez. ‘In fact, there may be two of them.’
‘Both white.’
‘Yes,’ said Martinez. ‘We’ve spoken with another victim’s family member who got a phone call the night their loved one died – well, a different kind of call than the one you got. We’re wondering if there’s a connection…’
Mrs Aneto closed her eyes. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Then she took a deep breath. ‘My son begins his introduction to detectives as a Latino victim. Strike one. William is gay. Strike two. Strike three would have been what I told you about the phone call. You people did nothing to find William’s killer. Nothing. You did not give a damn. And you’re only back around now because some white boys have gone the same way. I’m telling you now what I didn’t tell you before, because it might be connected. And you will work harder now for three victims than you ever would for William, a lone victim with the wr
ong-coloured skin-’
‘Mrs Aneto-’ said Danny.
She held up a finger. ‘There is nothing you can say to me that will change my truth.’
‘Your truth, Mrs Aneto,’ said Danny.
She stared him down. ‘I have spent a year having my anger and bitterness grow inside me. And this is my break. I won’t cry for those white boys, because maybe they’ll help me lay my William to rest. This is a tragic spotlight to have shined on my son, but I’ll take the light where I can get it.
‘I have two dead sons,’ she said. ‘Pepe, my youngest, was killed three years ago in drive-by crossfire, some gangs in Alphabet City. I was told he was scoring drugs. I never believed that. Something never seemed right about that to me. His killers have never been found.
‘On the night William died, as you know, he called me. But no, it wasn’t just to say goodnight.’ She paused. ‘I could barely hear him. He sounded drunk, he was sobbing, breathing so badly. He said to me, “Mama? I killed Pepe.” I said, “William. Is everything OK? What is the matter?” He said everything was fine. Then he told me what happened. He told me that he had sent Pepe to pick up drugs for him. And that was why Pepe was there. And that’s why he was shot. William apologized. Over and over. I was so angry with him, but I was so scared for him, he sounded so hopeless. When the police came the next morning to tell me he had been found, I thought it was suicide.’
‘So William was a drug user.’
‘I didn’t know he was. But he must have been at one stage. I knew William was clean when he died – his toxicology proved that – but if I told you what he said in this phone call he made, you wouldn’t get by the fact he had been involved with drugs.’
‘Mrs Aneto, every victim is important to us,’ said Danny. ‘Every single one. No-one gets treated any differently because of the colour of their skin, the lifestyle they have, the choices they make, nothing. We want to find your son’s killer. And we just want all the information we can to do that. We’re not judging that information, running it through any filter. They’re just facts to us – black and white – things that may or may not lead us to a killer.’