by John Lutz
“Sexual…I’m not so sure about that. It doesn’t seem to be what motivates this puppy.”
“One way or another, it motivates all of them. Or that’s the way it turns.”
“Sexual is just what the media loves.”
“It motivates them,” Beam said.
Da Vinci thought about it, looked stricken, and spun 360 degrees in his swivel chair so he was facing Beam again. “This is a bunch of shit we don’t need.”
“The possible upside is, he’ll start enjoying killing so much that in his excitement, he’ll make a mistake and we’ll nail him.”
Da Vinci didn’t seem interested just then in the upside. “I don’t mean only his sick enjoyment is a bunch of shit. I mean everything he’s doing different, assuming he’s the one that did Tina Flitt. You understand how this complicates things?”
“Sure,” Beam said.
“I mean the politics of the case?”
“I’m not thinking about politics, just my job.”
“And I’m thinking about my job. Which I might not have if this case goes sour. This city’s justice system’s gonna go bonkers when it finds out all twelve of the jurors might be targets. Nobody’ll wanna do jury duty.”
“Nobody wants to now,” Beam said. “Nobody ever did.”
Da Vinci stared across the desk as if Beam were responsible for everything that had happened. “Have you, for Chrissakes, got any good news?”
“Lab got six human hairs from the back of Tina Flitt’s car,” Beam said. “We’re waiting now for possible DNA matches.”
“That’d be too simple,” da Vinci said, but not without hope in his voice.
“Handles on the garrote he made were probably sections of a wooden broom handle. They’re manufactured in China and sold by the tens of thousands. After looping the wire around Tina’s neck, he used the handles to gain leverage so he could twist harder.”
“I know the method,” da Vinci said, raising his hand in a motion for Beam not to explain further.
“Looks like he got the handles from a broomstick using a fine-toothed saw.”
“Also sold by the tens of thousands. Any fingerprints?”
“No. He wore gloves again.”
“You’re really sure it was our guy?”
“I’m trying to make sure,” Beam said, “but we can’t rule out copycat. We can rule out the husband. Portelle did board the plane, and security cameras did record him and his wife inside the terminal at the passenger checkpoint. And according to the time stamp on this tape, the plane was taxiing for takeoff at the time of the murder.”
“Is he back in town?”
“Flew back from Chicago a few hours ago. Nell and Looper are interviewing him. I talked to Nell. She says he’s an emotional mess.”
The desk phone rang. Da Vinci picked it up, then said, “Put him on.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and dropped it below chin level. “It’s the commissioner. Anything more?”
“No You want me to leave the security tape?”
Da Vinci shook his head no. “Put it in the murder file.”
As Beam was removing the tape from the machine and leaving the office, he heard da Vinci behind him: “Yes, sir. How are you, sir?”
Practicing the politics of the case.
The Justice Killer had ordered lunch at Admiral Nelson’s, a new restaurant in lower Manhattan with an improbable sailing ship theme, and was seated in a booth resembling a cutaway lifeboat, waiting for his food to arrive. He sipped his gin martini and wondered what the police laboratory would make of the wire he’d used to kill Tina Flitt. He’d seen it protruding from an old lamp shade at an outdoor flea market in SoHo, glinting in the sun. The wire had been part of a beading design at the base of the shade, running its entire circumference.
Why the glint of sunlight at the base of the drab yellowed shade had given him the idea, he wasn’t sure. But he realized he’d been considering a different way to kill Tina, a way more…personal than a bullet from ten feet away, or simply fired into her head or the base of her spine from the backseat of her car. After the moment of ice, when she was paralyzed by what was about to happen, he wanted her literally to die at his hands. He wanted to feel her death like a message in the wire.
That was it; he wanted to experience the vibrations of her death, and of his vengeance.
He sipped his drink.
More than vengeance.
So he’d bought the old brass and ceramic lamp for twelve dollars, and a block away deposited it in with some trash at the curb, and kept only the shade. It had been easy, that evening, to cut away part of the shade’s fabric and beading and remove the wire.
The garrote he’d fashioned had worked more efficiently than he’d anticipated. Too efficiently, perhaps. Tina Flitt had died within seconds, and the wire had been so deeply imbedded in her neck that he hadn’t even attempted to remove it.
Still, he’d felt her die, heard her die, even heard the rush of her blood as it spilled from her.
It was like nothing so much as sex.
He pushed away the thought.
Yes, he was enjoying his mission now, but that made it no less a mission. He’d joined the fraternity of serial killers that murdered women for sexual thrall. But it was a fraternity he’d long misunderstood, and one whose members were distinguishable from each other.
He had reasons beyond the thrill of the hunt and the primal satisfaction of the kill. He was meting out justice to a system that had failed and was failing and must be changed. And of course he didn’t always kill women. Jurors were his target, not women, though every jury included women. He didn’t fall into the classic serial killer pattern he’d read and heard so much about. He wasn’t like the rest of them. Not at all.
He had his reasons to kill, and they were good ones.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his food, brought by an attractive young woman wearing some kind of nautical outfit. Her blond hair was chopped short and she wore one gold hoop earring, pirate style. Her top was horizontally striped red and white and had a square, low-cut neckline.
As she smiled and bent low to place his dishes on the table, the Justice Killer was aware of a nearby booth full of businessmen observing her generous breasts.
He couldn’t stop looking at her neck.
25
Melanie couldn’t look away.
Cold Cat smiled. Or almost smiled. She couldn’t really be sure. He had this way of slightly curling his upper lip so he might be smiling. But whatever message his lips were sending, the look in his eye was for her.
It took real force of will for her finally to avert her gaze.
Every day in court, since the outburst from the defendant’s mother, Cold Cat and Melanie had made some sort of contact she was sure no one else in the crowded courtroom noticed. And often she’d seen him exchange looks with his mother, who was always present. But they weren’t the same kind of looks.
The defense was presenting its case, and slick Bob Murray was standing directly in front of the table where Cold Cat sat, so both men were in the witness’s line of sight. The witness was a man named Merv Clark, whose appearance in court was over the strenuous objection of the prosecution.
“Would you tell us where you were at approximately two fifteen on the afternoon of February the sixteenth?” Murray asked politely, as Clark was his witness.
“No approximate about it,” Clark said. He was a well-groomed man in his thirties, with puggish features and slicked-back curly blond hair cut short on the sides and neatly parted in the middle. He’d said he was a cook but was presently between jobs. “I was out walking and happened to be passing the Velmont building on East Fifty-second Street. High-class apartments there, uniformed doorman, the whole bit. I know the time for sure because I’d told my wife I’d be back within an hour, and she’s a stickler about that kind of thing. I didn’t wanna be late, so I checked my watch a lot. I was checking it when I looked up and saw him.”
“Who was it
you saw?” Murray asked.
“That man. The defendant.” Clark pointed. “Seen him coming out of the building.”
“Let the record show that the Velmont Building is where Mr. Knee High lives.”
Melanie sat forward in her chair so she had an unobstructed view of Clark. She was aware of some of the other jurors also leaning forward. Already the testimony of the funny little man Knee High made it unlikely that Cold Cat had the opportunity to murder Edie Piaf. If Merv Clark was telling the truth about seeing Cold Cat on the East Side at quarter past two, he corroborated Knee High’s testimony. There was no way the defendant could have killed his wife on the West Side between two and two thirty, as the prosecution claimed.
Murray asked that the court record the fact that the witness had pointed to the defendant. Then, moving away from the table, he asked, “How did you know the man you saw emerging from the Velmont Arms was Richard Simms?”
“You mean Cold Cat? I recognized him right off. I know him, man, what he looks like. I buy his music. I’m a music fan, never miss the Grammys, all that stuff.”
“And you’re sure of the time?”
“Positive.” Clark held up his left wrist so his suit coat sleeve slipped down to reveal a silver watch. “New watch. Birthday gift from the wife. Keeps perfect time. So does the wife.” The jury and courtroom onlookers rewarded Clark’s humor with a ripple of laughter. That seemed to encourage him. “I knew if I was late she’d whap me upside the head with a skillet.” Too far. No laughter this time.
In the silence, Judge Moody cleared her throat.
“What’s a skillet?” a young woman in the gallery whispered.
Murray jumped in, addressing the witness. He didn’t want his examination to become an unintentional comedy routine. “And did you attempt to approach Richard Simms in front of the Velmont Arms at the approximate time of his wife’s murder?”
Farrato, the Napoleonic little prosecutor, rose from his chair, standing erectly with his chest thrust out. “Objection, your honor. Leading question.”
Almost unnoticeably, Murray shrugged. “Mr. Clark, did you talk to-”
“Leading!” Farrato was still on his feet. “Leading, leading, leading!”
Judge Moody sighed. “Sustained.”
No Murray shrug now. He was all business. “What happened after you saw the defendant?”
“I wanted to approach him. I was gonna ask for his autograph, but he turned and walked the other way on the sidewalk.”
“Did you call out or follow?”
“No. I mean, I was so surprised to see him. I always admired him. And there he was right in front of me. I mean, he’s a celebrity and a great artist. I guess I was kinda paralyzed. Then, before I got my wits about me again, he was gone, kinda lost in the crowd. There were lotsa people out walking that day, and the sidewalks were crowded. I missed my chance to talk to him, one of my idols.”
“This occurred at approximately quarter past two?”
“Exactly quarter past two.”
“Exactly,” Murray repeated, almost absently.
At the defense table, Cold Cat was taking all this in with a stone face. His facade slipped only for a moment, when he glanced Melanie’s way as he was shifting in his chair to make sure his mother was in the courtroom. Melanie glimpsed the vulnerability in him, the softness and the pain.
Murray thanked the witness and sat down, and Farrato stood up to cross examine. He adjusted his oversized tie knot and began to pace.
“Will you have time to finish your cross before we break for the day?” Judge Moody asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Farrato replied immediately, talking on the move, four steps each way, leading to compact and surprisingly graceful turnarounds. “I’ll be brief. There isn’t any reason not to be.” He stopped after two steps and did his tight little ballet turn toward the witness. “Mr. Clark, isn’t it a fact that your apartment is ten blocks from the Velmont Arms?”
“It is. I like to-”
“A simple yes or no will do,” Farrato said.
“Mr. Farrato,” said Judge Moody in a tired tone, “I’m the one who gives witnesses instructions in this court.”
“Of course, Judge. I was trying to be brief.”
“Be so,” said the judge.
Farrato raised his eyebrows and looked at Clark expectantly.
“Yes,” said Clark
“Is it not also true that you are scheduled for a court appearance on a battery charge next month?”
“Yes, it’s also true.”
“For beating your wife so severely she almost lost an eye and will require reconstructive surgery on her left cheekbone?”
“Well…yes.”
“What prompted you to volunteer your services as a witness?”
“I saw on the news about Cold Cat’s case, then I read about it in the papers and realized that I had a duty to help to ascertain the truth.”
That last suggested Murray had prepared his witness well, but Farrato seemed only momentarily angry. “Then you’re here doing your civic duty?”
“Exactly. That and because I like Cold Cat’s music. I think he’s a poet of the streets.”
“Mr. Clark, do you expect anything in return for testifying for the defense?”
“Return?”
Farrato nodded. “A quid pro quo. You said yourself Richard Simms is a celebrity. A rich one. And you’re in need of good legal counsel. Perhaps Mr. Simms, or one of his people, will see that your legal fees are taken care of. Perhaps even Mr. Murray himself would be so kind-”
“Objection,” Murray said, in the same weary tone the judge used when dealing with persistently pesky attorneys.
“Sustained.”
“Were you promised anything in return for your testimony?” Farrato asked the witness again.
“No! Definitely no!”
“Does your wife love you?”
“Object!” Murray said.
“I’ll rephrase,” Farrato said, before the judge could sustain. “Mr. Clark, do you believe your wife loves you?”
Puzzled, Clark looked to the judge, who said nothing. “Yeah. Yes, I’m sure she does.”
“Would she lie through her broken teeth to keep you out of prison despite the fact that you beat her almost to death?”
“Hey!”
“Object.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. To Farrato: “You know that kind of behavior is inexcusable, counselor.”
“I’m finished, your honor.”
“Not quite, but you’re getting close. We’ll adjourn until tomorrow.”
As usual, everyone rose when the judge did, and waited for her to leave before making their own exits. Too much ceremony and tradition, as far as Melanie was concerned. The truth could get lost in all that following the rules.
The last question, about Clark’s wife possibly lying for him, had been interesting to Melanie. She thought about it as she stood up and filed with the rest of the jurors from their chairs and toward the doors. Farrato had as much as told them Clark’s wife would corroborate Clark’s account of leaving their apartment to take a walk. If the jury believed her, Farrato knew they might very well believe Clark. Which is why he was trying to impugn her testimony, along with her husband’s, even before she took the stand and testified.
Might Clark be lying? Melanie didn’t think he looked like a perjurer. He wore a conservative suit, a maroon tie with a matching handkerchief peeking from its coat pocket. His blue eyes and pug face suggested no guile whatsoever; he looked nice, like a man who’d never entertained an evil thought.
But he had beaten his wife, according to Farrato.
So why would she lie for him? Her husband had hurt her, and she’d want to lie to hurt him back, not help him. If Clark was an opportunist committing perjury in the expectation that an acquitted Cold Cat would see that he received some money, there was no guarantee that he’d share it with his wife, the wife whose cheekbone he’d shattered.
Maybe she�
��d lie under oath because she was afraid of him.
Or maybe Clark’s battered spouse would commit perjury simply because she loved him. Melanie didn’t quite understand why a wife would do that, but she knew it happened frequently.
Some women would do the strangest things for love.
26
“It’s not getting any easier,” Looper said.
“Because you’re getting older,” Nell told him.
“You know what I mean.”
They were standing with Beam at Rockefeller Center, near where the row of colorful flags waved in the breeze above the sunken level where there was a restaurant and, in the winter, an ice skating rink. Business people in suits and ties scurried past, dodging the slower moving and more casually dressed tourists, some of whom were gawking and photographing. A few people glanced at the shapely, elfin woman with the short and practical hairdo, wearing jeans and a black blazer, standing between the angular man in the cheap brown suit, and the tall, athletic older man who wore a well-tailored gray suit and might easily have been a banker or top CEO were it not for a certain set of his shoulders and roughness to his oversized hands. Maybe he was a former big-time football or baseball player the tourists should recognize. Unless they’d happened to catch him in a rare TV interview or seen his photo in the paper, they wouldn’t guess he was a cop on the trail of a serial killer. So they didn’t approach him or aim their cameras his way, even though he was the kind of man who looked like somebody.
“The techs haven’t been able to do much with the security tape,” Beam said. “Looks like the killer’s at least average size, judging by the relative size of Tina Flitt’s car, but they can’t clean up the tape so any of his features are visible.”
“What about race?” Nell asked.
“No way to know. On the tape, he’s really not much more than a shadow.” Beam knew Helen Iman, the case profiler, had the killer down as a white male, but that was because most serial killers were white males.
A man paused walking past and attempted to light a cigarette in the breeze with a book match, but gave up after three matches, flipped away the barely burned cigarette, and walked on. The cigarette bounced, rolled, and dropped through a sewer grate. Looper looked as if he were torn between springing toward the wisp of smoke carried on the wind, or the cigarette itself.