Silent Victim

by C. E. Lawrence

  The walk to the subway felt endless. It couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile, but with each step her feet cried out with pain. She longed to tear off her spiked heels and walk barefoot. The streets were fairly quiet, and she could even hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees in the little pocket park on Sixth Avenue.

  As she approached the entrance to the IRT on Waverly Place, she saw a black limousine with Jersey plates pull up to the curb. The automatic window slid down smoothly on the driver’s side, and a young man leaned out.

  “Need a lift?”

  “Thank God!” she answered, grateful for her good luck. The private car service would no doubt cost twice what a cab would be, but Elena didn’t care. The subway ride would have been long and ugly, and she was willing to pay triple fare just to get home.

  When he asked her politely where she was headed and offered her a bottle of Evian water, she vowed to give him an extra-large tip. The automatic window whooshed back up as she settled back into the plush seat. Sipping the bottled water, she stared out at the buildings rushing by as the car glided uptown.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Lee Campbell awoke drenched in sweat, his injured arm throbbing.

  Fumbling for the bottle of water he kept on the bedside table, he tried to shake himself out of the dream’s spell. He took a long drink and shivered. The room was cool, but the chill in his body was deeper. In his dream, he had known the killer’s mind, imagined that he was him. That was all he could remember—but the feeling of being that deranged, obsessed person was still strong—so strong, in fact, that he would have trouble shaking it off.

  He looked at the clock next to the bed. The red numbers read 3:00 A.M. The dead hour.

  He tried to conjure up an image of the killer’s face, but couldn’t. In the dream, he had been the killer, felt his rage—but had never seen his face. Trying to shake the dream from his mind, he summoned all his willpower, threw off the blankets, and heaved himself out of bed.

  He felt the evil fist of depression tightening its grip on him. All he wanted to do was burrow under the covers until it passed—or until night fell again, wrapping its comforting blanket of darkness around the city. The knowledge that he must get up in a few hours and face the day only made things worse, adding anxiety to the already unbearable bleakness in his soul. It was as if all the color and sweetness had been sucked out of him while he slept. Kathy was across town at Arlene’s, and he didn’t want to obsess about whether she would call him.

  He rose from bed and tiptoed to the window. He looked through the back window of his apartment at the little garden below. The window faced uptown, and he thought of Kathy, sleeping peacefully (or was she?) a mile or so north of him. All around him, the city slept. A lyric from Puccini’s Turandot scrolled through his mind: Nessun dorma. No one sleeps tonight.

  There would be no more sleep for him tonight.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “What do you mean she’s ‘disappeared'?” Chuck Morton bellowed at his sergeant, who stood clinging to the knob of his office door as if it were a life raft. It was Monday morning, and he had arrived at the station house to find Ruggles waiting for him, white-faced and terrified.

  “I haven’t been able to reach her, sir,” Ruggles replied. “I’ve left messages on her cell phone and her landline, but there’s no response. And that’s just not like her, sir—she usually calls back within half an hour or so.”

  Morton reached out and wrapped his hand around the glass butterfly paperweight on his desk, squeezing it until his knuckles turned white.

  “What are you suggesting, Sergeant? That she’s gone AWOL? That she’s fled the country?”

  “No, sir. I—I’m terribly afraid something’s happened to her.” Ruggles’s ruddy complexion deepened; he looked frightened. His pale blue eyes were wide, and beads of sweat prickled on his forehead.

  “Huh!” Chuck snorted. “Things don’t ‘happen’ to Elena Krieger—not from what I hear.”

  “I just can’t think of any other explanation, sir. It’s not like her to—”

  “You already said that,” Chuck snapped. He knew he was being harsh on his sergeant, but he found the man’s devotion to Krieger irritating. The woman was trouble. He had known that when she was forced on him, and now she was proving it. “Look,” he said, his voice softer. “Let’s not panic until we know more, all right? Keep trying to reach her, and let me know when you—”

  The phone on his desk bleated. He grabbed the receiver.

  “Morton here.”

  As Ruggles watched, his captain’s expression changed from irritated to concerned to grim. He didn’t say much, but Ruggles knew from his face that it was bad news—very bad news.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Morton said, replacing the receiver. He looked away, then back at his sergeant. When Ruggles saw his captain’s expression, he felt his stomach slide down to his shoes.

  When Morton spoke, the words hit Ruggles like a bullet to the heart.

  “They found Krieger’s purse.”

  There was no need to elaborate—the phrase had a shattering clarity. Ruggles felt his knees go weak.

  “Where?”

  Morton looked down at his shoes. “In the Village.” “He got to her, didn’t he?”

  Again, there was no need to explain—they both knew who “he” was.

  “I don’t know, Sergeant.” Morton sounded angry—weary but angry.

  Suddenly Ruggles felt his vision narrowing, and the sight of his commander was replaced by a swiftly descending blackness.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Sergeant Ruggles said stiffly, and fled the room without looking back.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  At ten o’clock, Lee’s phone rang. It was Kathy, and she sounded terrible.

  “Can you meet me? I need to see you.” “Where are you?”

  “The Life Café. How ironic,” she added with a laugh that turned into a sob.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.” “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  Kathy was sitting at a table in the corner when Lee arrived, staring out the window. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, rimmed with red, and her face wore an expression Lee had never seen on her before: she looked forlorn. When she saw him she looked up and smiled, but it was a mournful smile, and her mouth trembled at the edges.

  “What is it?” Lee said, kissing her gently on the cheek. Her skin tasted salty. “What happened?” he asked, taking a chair across from her.

  Kathy sucked in a long, slow breath, and gazed across the room at the thin fingers of sunlight snaking through the maze of lace curtains.

  “My roommate in Philly called my cell phone this morning. My cat died in the night.”

  “Oh, no—I’m so sorry. Had he been sick?” “Not really—but he was very old.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t even know—he was a rescue cat. It’s odd,” she said. “He was there, and now he’s not. It feels impossible that his consciousness could disappear so abruptly, and so—finally. I have this strange lingering feeling of his presence, as though he’s still around in some way.” She let out a deep sigh, heavy with unshed tears. “I don’t mean anything mystical about it, but there is something profound about it—almost as if he’s left an energy footprint of some kind.”

  “When my grandmother died, I saw women on the street who reminded me of her for weeks afterward,” Lee said. He looked away, afraid she might ask him about his sister, but to his relief, she didn’t.

  The waitress appeared, a sweet, moonfaced young thing with clanking goth jewelry and a purple streak in her short black hair. Lee ordered a coffee—the coffee at the Life Café was strong and dark and good.

  “It’s weird,” Kathy said, absently wrapping her paper straw cover around her index finger like a white ring. “Ever since she called, all I can think of is him, slinking into the bedroom, or padding into the kitchen to demand food. Except that he’s not t
here at all.”

  “Maybe there is some kind of an energy footprint—who knows?” Lee said. “There are still so many things we don’t understand yet.”

  “I never thought absence itself could have such a strong … presence.”

  Lee tried to push from his mind those awful days and nights of thinking about Laura, of picturing her last hours, her last moments, the recurring nightmares of seeing her dead body—but only in his dreams. He never had the chance to mourn her properly, because there was never a definitive moment when anyone could say that she was dead—though he knew in his heart that she was. In those days every young woman reminded him of his sister, and he resented them for being alive when she wasn’t.

  “At least I didn’t have to make the decision to—you know,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “I had to do that for my dog.

  “What was that like?”

  “It caught me off guard. I wasn’t prepared for how difficult that decision would be, even when it was inevitable. It was uncomfortable and somehow it felt wrong to have that kind of power over another living creature. And then I was shocked by how irrevocable it was. Afterward I had the impulse to take it all back, to reverse my decision and bring him back to life—as if that were possible.”

  She smiled wanly. “I should know as well as anyone how irreversible death is, but when it’s someone—something?—so close to my heart, part of me doesn’t understand how that could be.” She looked at him with that rueful little half-smile he found so endearing. “Does that make any sense at all?”

  “Of course,” he replied, saying the words she needed to hear. “Sure it does.”

  “I don’t know how people do it for members of their family,” she said, shaking her head. “If it’s that hard to do for a dog, I can’t imagine—oh, God, I’m sorry,” she said, her face reddening. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

  He put his hand on hers. “We’ve all suffered losses, and we all have to grapple with death at some point.”

  “It’s just hard for me right now, coming on top of the work I’m doing at the site. It’s too much death—too much loss.”

  “That must be so hard for you,” he said.

  She bit her lower lip and stared at her coffee cup. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this work. I’m used to identifying bodies, but … so many. The enormity of it. I keep thinking it will get better, but it’s only getting worse.”

  “Maybe you should talk to someone about it.”

  “You mean like a professional?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m no good at that.” She stirred her cold coffee. “The other day there was a pocketbook next to one of the … victims. A little red purse, and in it there was a rabbit’s foot keychain, like the kind I had when I was a kid. I started wondering if she had children, and if one of them had given her the keychain …” She pulled air into her lungs, shuddering as she did.

  Lee’s cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” he said, rising from the table. He hated talking on his cell phone in public, especially restaurants. He saw the call was from Chuck and ducked outside to answer it.

  He stood against the wall of the café, underneath the black and yellow awning. Across the street in Tompkins Square Park, some kids were playing basketball, shouting and grunting as they lunged for the ball. A couple of young mothers were pushing strollers up Avenue B, laughing as they exchanged stories. A rumpled elderly man was walking an equally disheveled looking terrier. It all looked so normal.

  He flipped open his phone. “Hello?”

  “It’s me. I got some bad news,” Morton said.

  “What?”

  “It’s Krieger. I think he’s got her.” He ceased to hear the sounds of the basketball game across the street, to feel the breeze on his face or smell the exhaust fumes from the M8 bus as it rumbled past. His entire world narrowed to the cell phone in his hand and the voice at the other end.

  “What?”

  “She sent an e-mail last night that we only just saw a few minutes ago. It seems she went out without any backup—to the seediest damn tranny bar in the Village. They found her purse this morning.”

  “Christ. Where was it?”

  “On Sixth Avenue, Midtown.” “And no one saw him?”

  “We can’t find anyone who did so far. Or if they did, they’re not talking.” “Jesus, Chuck—”

  “I know!” Chuck said. He sounded exhausted and exasperated—and dangerously close to exploding. Chuck could be pushed beyond most people’s limits—but when he did finally blow, Lee knew from experience, you had better watch out.

  He felt a tug on his sleeve and turned around to see Kathy standing there.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he said to Chuck. “I’ll call you back in two minutes.”

  He turned back to face her.

  “What is it?” she said when she saw his expression.

  “Krieger’s missing.”

  Over on the basketball court, a young man missed a jump shot and cursed. “Son of a bitch!”

  The words floated across the street, and Lee registered them as appropriate to his situation.

  Son of a bitch, he thought. Son of a bitch.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Depressed as Lee Campbell had been in recent years, Chuck Morton looked even worse. His normally ruddy face was pale as a bedsheet. Lines Lee had never noticed before crisscrossed his forehead like errant railroad tracks, and his blue eyes were rimmed with red.

  If Elena Krieger had fallen victim to the killer, it would be worse than a tragedy—it was nothing less than a disaster. The death of a cop in the line of duty—any cop—always received lavish amounts of media attention in New York, which could be as claustrophobic as a fishbowl when it came to the relationship between the press and the police. But Krieger—that was as bad as it got. A woman, a foreigner, and an undercover agent—and a glamorous, beautiful woman to boot—working on a high-profile case of a serial offender. It was sure to set off a media frenzy. In a city weary with the aftermath of the greatest tragedy in its long history, a story like this would serve as a welcome distraction.

  All of this had occurred to Lee on his way up on the subway, and he knew that Chuck Morton realized it, too. And it was Morton who would have to answer for it all—to the media, to the police brass, and most painfully, to every cop underneath him.

  The door swung open, and Butts strode into the room, banging it closed behind him. He alone seemed energized by what had happened—not glad, by any means, but at least he didn’t look depressed and defeated. In fact, he looked angry.

  “Okay,” he said, without bothering to say hello, “what happened?”

  Chuck gave them the short version, at least as much as he knew. Krieger had gone to the infamous Jack Hammer on Friday night, and had disappeared sometime between 2 and a.m.

  “The Jack Hammer?” Butts exploded. “She went to the goddamn Jack Hammer?”

  “You didn’t have any luck there,” Chuck pointed out. “She evidently thought she could do better.”

  Butts snorted. “For Christ’s sake! It’s a rough place, even with backup! Good God, who did she think she was—Wonder Woman?”

  “Something like that, I guess,” Lee said.

  “I knew that woman was trouble,” Butts muttered.

  “That’s enough, Detective,” Chuck said wearily. “Calm down, will you?”

  “Oh, sure, I’ll calm down,” Butts replied, biting viciously on the end of an unlit cigar, decapitating it. Lee hadn’t seen him indulge in his cigar habit for a while—maybe it was an indication of how stressed he was.

  “The question is, what are we gonna do about it?” he continued, flinging himself into the nearest chair.

  “The first thing is to get straight exactly what we’re going to tell the media,” Chuck replied.

  “Yeah, that’ll be a real circus,” Butts muttered. “Can’t wait for that.”

  Lee looked
at Chuck. Butts had made the mistake of not reading the warning signs of his mounting rage. Morton was naturally even tempered, and could take a lot—until he blew. And when he blew, look out. Lee had seen the signs—the gradual tightening of his voice, the tension in his shoulders, the flush spreading upward from the back of his neck.

  Morton exploded, crashing his fist down on the desk with such force that Butts jumped backward, letting out a little yelp.

  “You know, Detective, it would be nice to just wave a wand and make it all go away!” he bellowed, his face the color of raspberry pudding. “But that’s not going to happen, so why don’t you adjust your attitude?”

  Butts stared at him, blinking rapidly, then fell back into his chair.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right.” He shoved the cigar back into his pocket. “What do we know?”

  “We know she left the bar around two,” Chuck said, with a glance out the window, where a lone pigeon was scraping the sill with its beak in search of scraps.

  “And that’s the last time she was seen?” Lee asked.

  “Yeah.”

  The door opened, and Sergeant Ruggles entered. As bad as Chuck Morton looked, the usually buoyant Ruggles looked even worse. He shuffled into the room like a sleepwalker and listlessly tossed some papers onto Morton’s desk. He avoided looking at any of them. If Lee had any doubt before, it was clear to him now that Ruggles was in love with Krieger. And he probably blamed Chuck Morton for her disappearance.

  Chuck picked up one of the papers from his desk and thrust it at Lee. “This was sent via the NYPD website this morning.”