A Killer's Essence

by Dave Zeltserman

  I contacted a detective I knew working Vice and asked him for any leads finding Howard. “Do me a favor and see if he’s on your payroll,” I asked.

  “You think he’s somebody’s snitch?”

  “Yeah, I think so. If he is, I’ll owe you big if you can find out whose.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Forty minutes later he called me back and told me I was right about Howard being an informant. He gave me the name of a detective out of Organized Crime who was working him.

  “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “Nope, I kid you not. It wasn’t easy getting that, but one of our guys who got fed up last year seeing Willie back on the street days after kicking the shit out of a john was able to dig that out.”

  “So he’s as violent as his sheet says?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m being told. Personally, I never had the pleasure. In the past he worked mostly out of the Bronx, although I’ve heard he’s been working in SoHo the last few months.”

  I thanked him for the information, then got on the phone until I was able to track down the detective in Organized Crime whose name I was given. He sounded annoyed when I asked him about Howard, and he told me that they cut him loose about six months ago. “Let’s just say he got into a beef with a guy we needed him close to, and then discovered he was stringing us along with most of the shit he was feeding us. Why the interest, what’s Willie done?”

  “We’re looking at him for a homicide, maybe two others.”

  “Doesn’t sound like him,” the detective said. “Manslaughter maybe, but not homicide. How’d this shit happen?”

  “Knife, .40 caliber.”

  “I think you got the wrong guy. Willie’s got himself a temper, but I’ve never known him to carry blades or guns.”

  “A body was found last night where he’s been doing business lately. Whether he’s our guy or not, we need to talk with him.”

  “Hang on and I’ll dig out some addresses.”

  When he came back he gave me a list of places in the Bronx where I might find Howard—known shooting dens, as well as adult bookstores and theaters where Howard might be working.

  I drove to the Bronx and visited the bookstores and theaters first. None of the people working there knew Howard, or at least claimed they didn’t, but I went through the places anyway and felt like I needed a shower badly after each one.

  Next on my list were the shooting dens. Two of them were in abandoned buildings; one was a residence, and I was going to need a warrant pulled before going to that one. I was also going to need backup. While I waited across the street from the first address—an abandoned two-family house that had seen far better days—the medical examiner’s office called. The knife used in the murder was military, but it wasn’t the same make and model used in the other two killings. The forensics technician told me that they counted forty-eight stab wounds in the face, another sixty-two to the torso, all done post-mortem. The jugular was also severed post-mortem.

  “What was cause of death then?” I asked.

  Over the phone I could hear him clucking his tongue. “Shame on you, detective, jumping to the conclusion you did and not examining the body carefully enough. Cause of death was blunt trauma to the back of the skull. He was hit hard with something flat and with a rough surface. I would guess a brick.”

  Two squad cars had pulled up behind me and four uniformed officers were getting out of the vehicles. I held up a hand, indicating I needed a minute. I asked the technician if they found anything else.

  “Time of death was between nine thirty and ten o’clock last night,” he said. “The victim ate within fifteen minutes of his death. Contents showed what looked like Indian food. Most likely his last meal was lamb saag—rice, spinach, and lamb. One more thing, he has a tattoo on his right biceps. A heart colored in red with the name Gretta written inside with yellow ink.”

  Sometimes you catch a break. The tattoo was a big one given how badly the victim’s face had been torn up. I got forensics on the phone to ask if they’d found a brick in the dumpster. They hadn’t. As far as they were concerned, they didn’t find anything pertaining to the murder inside it. I had spoken to Hennison by phone a half hour earlier after he had finished interviewing the restaurant staff. A few of them had gone out back the other night to smoke but none of them had seen anything. He also let me know then that the canine team came up empty. I called Hennison back and relayed to him what the medical examiner’s office told me, including the technician’s guess that the victim’s last meal was Indian food.

  “I remember seeing an Indian restaurant on the same block,” I said.

  “I’ll check it out,” Hennison said, “Fucking shame the same knife wasn’t used.”

  “He could’ve ditched his knife and gun after Lynch witnessed him killing Gail Laurent. He could’ve rearmed himself recently.”

  “This is going to make it a bitch selling the idea to Phillips that we have the same psycho at work,” Hennison said. “By the way, I located the patrolman who was supposed to be checking the restaurant last night. He didn’t. He got too caught up with a convenience store robbery. You still out looking for Howard?”

  “Still am. I’m in the Bronx now, got a few more addresses to visit before heading back to Manhattan.”

  I got off the phone with Hennison, then left my car to join the four uniformed officers who were standing impatiently waiting for me. A Sergeant Henry Jackson was supposed to pull a warrant for a Melrose Avenue address. I asked which one of them was Jackson, and he turned out to be a big hulking guy with a thick horseshoe-style mustache. He handed me the paper.

  The first location we searched was empty. The stench inside was bad enough I had to fight to keep from gagging. Every room had been used as an outhouse by the addicts visiting there, and there were plenty of signs of recent activity: broken needles, empty lighters, and other paraphernalia and garbage left behind. At the next location there were a half dozen addicts lying around in different stages of shooting up, but no Willie Howard, and no one willing to say they knew him. None of them even seemed to care much when we arrested them and loaded them into a waiting van.

  At the Melrose Avenue address, we were greeted at the door by a skinny guy with a shaved head and tattoos covering most of his face and neck. I handed him the warrant, and while he looked it over a dog inside the house went ballistic.

  “This is bullshit, man,” he said angrily, handing me back the warrant. “My home ain’t no known shooting gallery. And I don’t know no Willie Howard. Never heard shit of the guy.”

  His eyes were glazed enough to show that he was high on something. I told him we were going to have to search his residence regardless. His face contorted to show his disgust at that. “Let me get hold of Lucy first,” he said. “I don’t want none of you hurting her.”

  He opened his door enough for him to squeeze through the narrow opening. and it looked like he fought something back as he did so. When he opened the door again he had a pit bull held tightly at the end of a choke collar. The animal was near apoplectic as she tried to lunge at us, thick strands of drool pouring out of her jaws. One of the patrolmen held his revolver out in case the animal got loose. I let my hand drop to my holster flap.

  “Why don’t you lock her in a room?” I asked the owner.

  He shook his head. “I ain’t doing that. Someone lets her out, and you assholes end up using her for target practice. No fucking way.”

  We followed him into the house, making sure to give his pit bull a wide berth. Inside it was a mess, and while we found a number of stoned out people throughout the residence who looked like they must’ve shot up recently, we didn’t see any drugs out in the open or any other paraphernalia. Also no sign of Willie Howard. The owner kept a short lead on the pit bull, and the animal didn’t let up for one second. You would’ve thought she would’ve choked herself to death with the way she tried to get at us. I kept a wary eye on her the whole time I was in the house,
and could feel cold sweat building on the back of my neck. When we were leaving, I asked the owner why the name Lucy for such a hell-bent beast. He grinned at me, told me it was short for Lucifer.

  I was glad once we were outside and breathing in fresh air and had a door separating us from that dog. The other officers looked just as relieved.

  “You need us for anything else?” Sergeant Jackson asked bluntly when we were back at our cars.

  “No, we’re done,” I said. “Thanks for all your help. Just make sure I get called first if you catch wind of this guy.”

  I watched them get into their patrol cars. None of them looked too happy about wasting the afternoon. I wasn’t too happy about it either. After they drove off, I got into my own car and headed back to Manhattan, glad to be putting the Bronx behind me.

  Chapter 22

  Hennison was on the phone when I arrived back at the precinct. His eyes were hard glass, his expression locked in rigid attention. He noticed me and signaled for me to wait for him. After a few grunts into the phone, he scribbled down some notes and hung up. When he looked back up at me his eyes were glistening.

  “I might have a lead on our dead guy,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You were right, there is an Indian restaurant on the same block, and our victim might’ve eaten there.” Hennison shook his head over a private thought, a hard grin tightening his mouth. “The owner there claims he remembers everyone who eats there, so I give him a rough time estimate and general description, and this guy’s eyes light up and he tells me what our dead guy was wearing, even down to the shoes. Then he pulls out a credit card receipt for one James Solinski and claims that’s who I was asking about.”

  “How about a coat?”

  “Supposedly he wore one to the restaurant. Double-breasted camel hair topcoat. I just got off the phone with Solinski’s credit card company, and have a home address and phone number for him. Poor sap’s from Cleveland, Ohio.”

  Fuck, a tourist. That was all we needed. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

  “How high are you rating this?” I asked.

  “Very. That owner’s some kind of freak. He even had the brand of the shoe right.”

  “You’re going to have to call Solinski’s home.”

  “Yeah, I know. Any luck finding Howard?”

  He already knew the answer to that. He was just gloating over his own discovery and my failure at locating Willie Howard. I shook my head and stood watching as Hennison called Solinski’s home number. From his end of the conversation it was clear he had gotten the man’s wife. He asked her whether her husband had any distinguishing marks, and I could hear her voice over the line turning shrill and nearly hysterical as she described her husband’s tattoo, the one on his biceps with a red heart and her name, Gretta, written in yellow ink, and then asking why he needed to know that. Hennison, his voice flat and detached, explained what happened, told her where and when her husband’s body was discovered, and asssured her that someone would be calling her back soon with more information.

  He got off the phone and turned to me, his expression somber. “We know who we got in the morgue,” he said.

  “What was he doing in New York?”

  “Business. Christ, he must’ve been killed minutes after he ate dinner. You know how the owner of that Indian restaurant described him? Jolly and gregarious. How’d this poor shmuck end up in that alley?”

  “He could’ve been lured back there.”

  Hennison made a face. “We’ve got the same psycho at work. I don’t buy it’s some tranny cocksucker doing this murder.”

  “You read his sheet?”

  “Yeah, I read it, and I still don’t buy it. How many times was Solinski stabbed? Over a hundred? Three fingers cut off? Mouth bashed in? This has the same stench of overkill as the other two.” Hennison started banging his palm impatiently on his desk, his lips curling back to reveal badly stained teeth.

  “Fuck this,” he said all at once. “I’m talking to Phillips.”

  He jumped to his feet and stormed off, presumably to convince Phillips that this murder was connected with the other two from back in October. I didn’t bother joining him, instead waiting by his desk. I didn’t have to wait long. Two minutes later he came back holding a cup of coffee. He shook his head and told me until we had something solid, or at least could cross Willie Howard off, Phillips didn’t want to hear about it.

  “Fucking cocksucker,” Hennison muttered under his breath.

  I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to Phillips or Howard.

  The local news that night ran Willie Howard’s mug shot, reporting that we were looking for him in connection with the murder of an out-of-town businessman behind a SoHo restaurant. I was glad we were able to keep Solinski’s name out of the story; as it was they had a field day with the story given Willie Howard’s past arrests and their speculation on how the victim ended up in that alley. We needed to get Howard’s picture out there, as well as the tip hotline we set up, but I just hoped none of Solinski’s family saw any of the stories, because if they did I’m sure they’d be able to put two and two together.

  Later, after dinner, I got a call from Earl Buntz. He wanted to meet, said it was important.

  “How important?”

  “Important enough. Half hour, okay?”

  He told me where to meet him. Bambi asked me if it was someone from work calling. I shook my head and told her I was heading out.

  The tavern where Earl wanted to meet was a hole-in-the-wall dive in East Flatbush. A four-step walk-down led me into a dimly lit room that smelled faintly of stale beer and body odor. An oak bar took up the right side of the tavern, and it was badly chipped and worn and had clearly seen better days. Half a dozen tables were scattered about on the other side of the room. A few hardcore drinkers were sitting at the bar, no one at the tables. Earl wasn’t there yet. None of the customers paid any attention to me as I walked up to the bar to order a drink. The bartender barely paid any attention to me either. He was a raw big-boned man with thick forearms and had the look of someone who’d done a lot of brawling in his younger days, at least from all the dents and scars along his face. He didn’t look too enthused about being there, at least no more so than any of his customers. I asked him for a Bud, and at first he acted as if he didn’t hear me, then reluctantly, as if it pained him greatly to do so, he pulled a bottle out of a cooler and handed it to me.

  “Three bucks,” he said, his lips barely moving. I laid a five dollar bill on the bar and walked away with the beer. I didn’t bother waiting for him to ask if I wanted my change. Something told me I’d be waiting a long time for him to do that.

  I sat at a table facing the street. Earl didn’t keep me waiting long. Within minutes, the door opened and he walked briskly in, rubbing his hands together to try to warm them. He spotted me, gave me a short nod, then continued on to the bar to get himself a drink. Earl went to high school with Mike and graduated in the same class. Ever since I’d known him he was always a roly-poly type with a face as round as a beach ball and a mop of orange hair topping his head. He was a damn good athlete in his younger days with quick reflexes, lighter on his feet than you’d expect from someone his size. He joined me at the table, beer in hand. His hair was cut shorter than I remembered it, and more gray than orange.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  He looked uncomfortable sitting across from me. In all the time I’d known him, his cheeks were always red, but now they were colorless. He adjusted himself in his chair before looking at me.

  “Those Brighton Beach boys you arrested a few months back,” he said. “Their pretrial hearing is next Tuesday.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll be there testifying.” Earl had been looking more over my shoulder than directly at me. His eyes slid sideways to meet mine.

  “Maybe it might be a good idea to change your story,” he said. “Maybe remember that you forgot to identify yourself as a police officer.”


  “You’re asking me to perjure myself?”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “Bullshit. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Watch your tone with me,” he warned. “I’m here as a friend. That’s my only involvement in this. So don’t fly off the handle at me, okay? You do that again, I’m walking out of here.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I took a deep breath, held it for a ten-count before letting it out. “What’s going on?”

  He took a drink of his beer and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Someone reached out to me and suggested it might be a good idea for you to change your story, and I agree.”

  “Who’s this somebody?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not saying, Stan, and it wouldn’t make any difference to you if I did.”

  I felt a pulse start to beat along my temple. “Tell this person to go fuck himself,” I said.

  “It could be worth some money to you,” he said.

  “Yeah, what am I supposed to do? Say that I lied on the arrest?”

  He shrugged. “Mistakes happen, especially in the heat of the moment. You remember differently now. That’s all.”

  “It wouldn’t matter. They’d still have those Russians on weapons charges.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Your statement gets brought into question, it all could end up being thrown out of court.”

  I sat back, finished off my beer and placed the empty bottle on the table. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said.

  “You should give it some thought,” he said.

  “Is there a threat involved?”

  “I don’t know.” He shifted his gaze away from me. “These are the type of guys you’re never quite sure about. I don’t like it, Stan. I think you should take the money and bite the bullet on this. Your career can take the hit.”