88 Killer

by Oliver Stark

‘Find it quick,’ said Harper. ‘We’re getting somewhere.’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

  March 10, 11.51 p.m.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me here,’ said Denise. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is to come back here.’

  Aaron Goldenberg stared out glassy-eyed. ‘What can I do? My only daughter is out there – I must do everything I can.’

  Denise felt the rise of tears but pushed them away. It wouldn’t help to be emotional. ‘The police won’t give you the whole story,’ she said, ‘because everyone’s afraid to speak.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A serial killer attacking Jewish victims.’

  She saw something move behind Aaron Goldenberg’s eyes. ‘Killer? But my daughter was kidnapped.’

  ‘I can’t tell you a lie,’ said Denise. ‘We now think your daughter’s kidnapping is linked to three other murders. David Capske, Esther Haeber and Marisa Cohen.’

  Aaron Goldenberg shook his head as if it was the only thing keeping him from being swallowed alive by the yawning abyss. ‘My only daughter.’

  Denise watched him fall forward on to the glass case. Beneath his outstretched arms and tearful eyes, were photographs from Auschwitz and Belsen. Naked Jewish men, women and children, lining up for execution, modestly covering themselves although they were moments from death. The look of agony and uncertainty in their faces.

  ‘What do you know?’ he said.

  ‘Not enough. Your daughter and David Capske had consecutive numbers used to label them. Abby had the number 144002 on her report, David had 144003 scratched on his chest. Do you have any idea what the number 144004 means?’

  ‘No. I can look for you.’

  ‘Please,’ said Denise.

  Aaron Goldenberg thought for a moment then let out a sigh. ‘The number of Jews who will be saved.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Maybe the 144 refers to 144,000. It is in Revelation. It is a contested number. It may refer to many things or nothing at all, but it is said that it related to 144,000 Jews converted to Christianity.’ Goldenberg walked to the side of the room and entered his office. He came out with a copy of the New Testament. He spent a minute flicking through it, then showed it to Denise:

  Then I looked, and behold, on Mount Zion stood the Lamb, and with Him 144,000 who had His name and His Father’s name written on their foreheads.

  Denise read the passage. She looked up. ‘The 88 Killer is trying to save Jews?’

  ‘There are some who see the number like that, to mean that 144,000 Jews will be redeemed.’

  ‘Our killer’s a delusional fanatic. The bullets they found in three of the bodies were original Nazi bullets.’ Denise lowered her head. In the museum, they were surrounded by examples of the horrors of the Holocaust, the mindless and ruthlessly inhuman destruction of millions of people. It was hard to imagine that the lessons of history had been lost so quickly.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ said Goldenberg.

  Denise put out a hand. It rested on his shoulder. ‘You need to help me profile this killer. If he’s delusional, then I need to profile the projection as well as the man. I need to know what he’s doing.’

  ‘Committing crimes against Jews!’ said Goldenberg. ‘Playing God. Perhaps he thinks he is working in a concentration camp or a ghetto.’

  ‘The ghettos were just holding compounds for the camps,’ said Denise.

  ‘That’s right, Dr Levene. And it was happening all across Eastern Europe. When the Nazis invaded and took over areas, they created walled cities within cities. Policed by vicious soldiers, sometimes Jewish police. People were crammed into these ghettos, disease spread – but you knew this. The Nazis liked to associate the Jews with disease. Infected bodies were kept behind barbed wire. There were outbreaks of typhoid and cholera. They starved the populations, feeding them so little that they had to burrow out through the walls to find some food. You once said that one of the victims was found without a coat.’

  ‘Esther Haeber.’

  ‘In the bitter winter, they outlawed winter coats and fur coats.’ Dr Goldenberg sighed heavily. ‘In the Warsaw Ghetto, the Nazis outlawed the owning and wearing of winter coats upon pain of death.’

  Denise listened. The full horror of what she was hearing opening inside her mind.

  ‘He’s doing the same.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Goldenberg. ‘It doesn’t end.’

  An hour later, Denise dropped Aaron Goldenberg back at his house and called Harper.

  When Harper answered, his voice was strained and tired. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Good,’ said Denise.’ ‘He’s not just a Nazi.’

  ‘So what is he?’ said Harper.

  ‘He’s living like a Nazi. I think he’s a copycat.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of Nazi crimes, Nazi murders.’

  ‘A copycat. These are real historical crimes?’

  ‘I think so. They echo what happened in the ghettos. I think he’s delusional. I think he even thinks he’s policing the ghettos and punishing crimes. The number 144 might be a Biblical reference to 144,000 Jews who would be saved.’

  ‘He thinks he’s saving them? What about Abby?’

  ‘Starvation. It’s how they killed great numbers in the ghetto. But there’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aaron Goldenberg told me something he feared. They sometimes used Jewish women for prostitutes. They kept these women in brothels.’

  ‘You think that’s why he took Abby?’

  Denise paused and then whispered her answer.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Crown Heights, Brooklyn

  March 11, 7.55 a.m.

  Harper and Eddie spent the night in the car, searching around the various locations that Jack Carney had given them for Heming’s whereabouts. Conducting surveillance was never easy and the night had been cold and long. There wasn’t much hope of finding anything, either, but they needed to keep busy and keep the team active. The interviews had revealed nothing. The killer seemed to come and go without ever being seen.

  Harper pulled over at a news-stand. ‘We’re going to see some reaction now,’ he said. He handed across a dollar bill and took a copy of the Daily Echo.

  Eddie looked and sighed. ‘There’ll be protests and marches. This is going to cause real outrage.’

  Erin Nash was focusing on the murders of David, Marisa and Esther. Two big pictures of confident women stared out, smiling, with David in the middle. Denise read Erin Nash’s report.

  NAZI HATE CRIME IN MANHATTAN

  On a quiet Monday afternoon earlier this week, in downtown Manhattan, a 32-year-old Jewish woman was found tethered to a piling in the East River. She had been submerged and then shot through the head. A small symbolic number was carved into a nearby post. It was the number 88.

  She was the third Jewish New Yorker murdered in the past two months, the second in the last three days. The question needs to be asked: is this a series of hate crimes against the Jewish community?

  Marisa Cohen, a PR consultant recently separated from city lawyer Daniel Cohen, had been missing since Sunday evening. A police source said that she was half-drowned before she was shot. A death that is so horribly violent and cruel that it takes your breath away.

  This attack comes only a few days after another Jewish citizen, David Capske, was found dead in East Harlem, his body wrapped in barbed wire.

  And now a police source is saying that two months ago, in a similarly random and brutal attack, 29-year-old Esther Haeber was shot in a vicious robbery. The thief cut off her fingers in order to escape with her gold rings. Although officially a closed case, police are investigating the possibility that this was a hate crime.

  All three victims may be among a growing number of victims of a new and vicious breed of American hate crime. Brooklyn’s higher rate of anti-Semitic hate crime seems to be heading across the river to Manha
ttan.

  Right-wing organizations like the American Brethren, the White Wolves, the Neo-Aryan Alliance and Legend 88, have been growing in recent years as unemployment and international and national crises deepen the sense of disorder and chaos.

  In communities across America, youths are seeing right-wing rhetoric as an attractive way to cope with social and national insecurity. In places like Brooklyn, Jewish communities are concerned by the rise in verbal and physical intimidation.

  Even with their own security force, the community could not prevent several attacks in recent months. A schoolgirl on her way home; a mother pushing a stroller with twins; a shopkeeper closing for the day; a businessman getting into his car. All of these people were assaulted and beaten to the accompaniment of racial taunts.

  Lieutenant Tierney of the Hate Crime Task Force said yesterday, ‘There is nothing more despicable than crimes of bias and we will seek out and prosecute every one of them. But there is little actual increase in crime figures. We are reporting more because we are better at identifying them. In the past, many hate crimes would not have been reported at all. We’re now hearing about them, and can act.’

  But is it true to say that communities feel less safe than a decade ago? Hate has come back and, as David Capske, Marisa Cohen and Esther Haeber lie dead, we must all ask ourselves: do we have a Nazi serial killer or, as the police have named him, the 88 Killer, stalking New York?

  Harper waited as Eddie read and reread the article.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s what you wanted her to say. I’d even go so far as to say she’s been a little reserved.’ Eddie passed the paper back to Harper.

  Harper said, ‘Let’s see what kind of a reaction we get.’

  ‘The Captain will know it was you.’

  ‘I know, but he won’t be able to prove it.’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Midtown, Manhattan

  March 11, 8.42 a.m.

  Becky Glass had been unsure about the job from the start. She’d never done anything like it. Never even anticipated that she’d end up in this position, but money was money and she needed a new place to live, her kids needed new shoes and everyone had to eat. Since the divorce, her husband’s checks were not reliable and she had to work for herself.

  Becky continued to stride up the avenue, a child attached to each hand. Her pace was quick. She was already fifteen minutes late.

  Out in Brooklyn, she had a part-time day job, but it paid very little. Prior to the arrival of the children she had been a bank clerk and now she needed a full-time job again. She had to focus on moving forward as an independent single mother.

  She had to shut the door on her emotions. She’d deal with them later, when the children were older. It was a fact of life, no one else was going to jump in and save you, at least not if you were thirty-six with two kids in tow.

  The job had been advertised. She’d called them up. She had the right experience and they told her to come by. She’d let her old boss know she needed full-time work and he was kind enough to put in a good word with the company. The location on Manhattan would present problems, but the pay was good.

  That morning, things hadn’t gone to plan, though. It was a teacher day at school, her babysitter had called in sick and her friends couldn’t be rounded up at short notice. She had a brief meltdown, shouted at both kids and then pulled herself together. She got herself dressed, decided she wasn’t going to let this small obstacle get in the way of a new life, and brought the kids with her to the interview.

  ‘I can’t walk any more,’ said small, round-faced Ruth.

  ‘Well, it’s just round the next corner,’ Becky replied with a jerk of her right arm. Her daughter skipped forward. ‘Come on! I can’t be late for this. Mommy needs a job. Ruthie needs to eat.’

  Ruth and Jerry were both seven years old. They weren’t twins, there were ten months between them, but for two months each year they shared the same age and the younger Jerry teased his older sister about it until she lost her temper.

  Out on a Manhattan day trip from Brooklyn, or that’s how they saw it, they didn’t quite understand their mother’s impatience. Mom had always been there just for them.

  Becky was excited about getting back into the routine of a job. She knew it was the right thing to do. She was a little scared, of course, not sure if she had the skills or attitude they were looking for, but she came with a very good résumé and she was determined.

  Now, standing in front of the huge office block, dwarfed by the gargantuan glass building zigzagged with windows as far as the eye could see, she could feel her fears rising.

  She looked at her kids. ‘Mommy is now officially terrified. Say a little prayer, won’t you?’ Neither child responded. ‘It’s just an interview. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Wish me luck.’

  They both turned their heads up towards her bright blue eyes and stared.

  ‘Good luck,’ came a staccato reply.

  ‘Come on, you can’t wait for me out here. You can wait at reception. I’ll ask the receptionists to keep an eye on you, but no moving and no talking to anyone. I called and told them my problem. They said they’d be pleased to have you. Anyone apart from them talks to you and you go straight to reception, they know where I am.’

  Becky pulled both children up to the top of the steps. Jerry was preoccupied. He was pointing down at the street. ‘Mommy, that car’s on fire.’

  ‘Shhh, no more talking,’ said Becky. She looked across the street at a red car. ‘Someone’s smoking in the front seat, that’s all.’

  Becky walked across the marble floor to the glossy receptionist, half dragging both kids.

  ‘Becky Glass. For an interview.’

  ‘Fourteenth floor, Ms Glass. Take the first elevator and report to reception.’

  ‘Thank you. I realize that it’s a bit of an imposition, but would you be able to keep an eye on my children? I called – you might remember. I had a problem with my babysitter and had to bring them with me. They have promised to behave.’

  ‘Of course, I’d be happy to. Good luck and have a nice day.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’ Becky looked around one last time. It was a very nice-looking building, safe and open, with security on the door and three receptionists.

  She turned to her kids. ‘Now, look, it’s safe here, the receptionist is there if you need anything. You’ve both got reading books in your backpacks, now go and sit on that bench and be good. I won’t be long. If you move from here, I will not be happy.’

  The two kids muttered under their breath and hauled themselves on to the bench.

  ‘Can’t I come in with you?’ said Jerry.

  ‘No, Jerry, you sit and read.’

  ‘I don’t want to be left alone with her.’

  ‘She’s your sister.’

  ‘I know and she stinks.’

  ‘She’s just the same as you. If she smells, so do you.’

  Jerry said something under his breath. Ruth glared at him and pushed him with her leg. He pushed back. Becky scolded firmly, then moved towards the elevator, walking backwards and wagging a finger.

  She gave them one last look as she stepped into the elevator and shouted out, ‘Now, don’t move from here. I love you. I’ll see you in a little bit.’ The elevator door shut. Becky felt the cabin shake as it rose. She took out her résumé, panic swelling in her throat. What was she getting herself into? Could she even hold down a job with her two children?

  As soon as their mother was out of sight, the children glared at each other.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ said Ruth.

  ‘The ugliest thing I ever saw.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve never seen yourself.’

  ‘I’m not staying around here with you, stinker,’ said Jerry.

  ‘You heard what Mama said. You’re not allowed to go anywhere.’

  ‘I can go wherever I want as long as that lady on the desk doesn’
t see me.’

  Jerry jumped off the bench and started to walk towards the big glass door while keeping a close eye on the receptionist. He pulled the door open and felt the cold air again. The sound of the traffic excited him as he moved outside and let the door swing shut behind him. He’d prove who was the bravest.

  Ruth looked around her. She wasn’t going to be left alone, that was for sure. She quickly followed Jerry out of the door. She caught a glimpse of her brother as he disappeared around the corner of the building, his two hands formed as if carrying a handgun, the imagination already in overdrive.

  Ruth hung on the rail and then sighed. She’d have to follow. Otherwise Jerry would get himself into trouble and she’d get the blame.

  Chapter Sixty

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 11, 1.54 p.m.

  Harper arrived back at the precinct as Eddie was heading out. He stood across the road and stared at the media. He decided to go no further but hung back and waited for Eddie.

  The article had provoked an enormous response. There were Jewish groups protesting at Police Headquarters and the Mayor’s Office, and the press were still sniffing around Blue Team.

  Eddie came out and joined him. ‘Thanks for getting back. You heard?’

  ‘No, what is it?’

  ‘Another body, Harper.’

  ‘Is it Jewish?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’ Eddie moved towards his car.

  Harper took a look up to the sixth floor. ‘I ought to check in with Lafayette.’

  ‘No time,’ said Eddie. ‘Press will be at the crime scene before we know it.’

  Harper followed Eddie to the car. They got in and Harper asked, ‘How did things go with the Nazi bullets and the typewriter?’

  ‘Very difficult to trace the Internet sales,’ said Eddie. ‘They’re often not identifiable, but we might get them through credit-card or PayPal details. There are relatively few agents dealing with this kind of memorabilia and we’re checking them all out. We’re starting by asking them about Martin Heming, seeing if he ever bought anything, but then we’re asking for their full records.’