by Oliver Stark
‘What are the numbers like?’
‘In terms of clients, there are thousands,’ said Eddie. ‘The main problem is that the agents don’t want to get involved.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a closed world, isn’t it? They don’t want to be seen as Nazis or to be seen as outing their customer base.’
‘How did you get them to talk to you?’
‘I took your lead. I said I’d simply pass their names on to Erin Nash of the Daily Echo, explaining that they didn’t want to assist with the investigation into these Nazi killings.’
‘Did it work?’
‘You bet. New York is a dangerous place to be if you’re seen to be against this investigation. This is a liberal city, Harper. They’d be hounded out.’
Harper stared out of the window. ‘Where are we heading?’
‘Midtown. Woman killed, found in an alleyway.’
Eddie threw the car into gear and pulled off at speed. They drove up to the crime scene and found the squad cars sitting outside an alleyway.
‘Anyone tell you anything about this one?’ Harper asked.
‘Not a thing,’ said Eddie.
‘Another alleyway – maybe there is a connection.’ said Harper.
‘Seems likely, doesn’t it?’
They pulled themselves out of the car and moved towards the scene.
‘What you got?’ asked Harper at the tape.
‘Two months and I move to Suffolk County,’ said the First Officer.
‘Yeah, well I hope the pay makes up for the company. Tell me about the body.’
‘It’s a woman halfway up.’
Harper walked under the tape and down the long black tunnel of the alleyway. ‘Let’s get thinking, Eddie.’
The alleyway was wide, with two dumpsters at the far end. They arrived at the corpse. Two other detectives were already there, sketching and taking notes.
‘How you doing?’ asked Garcia.
‘Not great,’ said Harper. ‘You found anything?’
‘We just got here.’
Harper turned to the body. The victim was propped up against the wall of the building. There was a cloth over her face. Harper moved in close. He lifted the cloth and saw the star-shaped wound on her forehead. ‘Why did no one tell me? It’s a gunshot wound to the forehead. Did Lafayette know this?’
‘Dispatch didn’t know what it was. First Officer said it was a rape murder.’
Harper shook his head. ‘Rape murder, my ass – this is the 88 Killer. Look around for his symbol.’ He lifted the cloth again. ‘It’s another small entrance wound, very similar to the others.’
‘Yeah, we saw the hole in her head, Harper,’ said Garcia with a laugh.
‘It’s shaped like a little six-pointed star,’ said Harper. ‘This is the fourth homicide with a point-blank gunshot wound to the head or neck. The killer’s made an error. Or he’s done this purposely.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘They get decadent, they want more attention, they want people to know how they operate. He tried to hide at first; now he figures that we know it’s him, he wants to entertain us.’ Harper turned to Eddie. ‘He shot her point blank, Eddie. Point blank. With the muzzle tight against bone.’
‘Okay, man.’
‘You know what happens?’
‘Not sure, I’ve never been shot through the head – but please, Harper, enlighten me.’
‘The gases can’t escape so they get out through the skin. It’s pretty unmistakable. The gun was closer than it was on Capske and Esther Haeber, though.’
Harper knelt by her side and tried to get a closer look at her face. He moved her hair back. ‘She’s in her late thirties. Looks . . . worn out.’
‘She a whore?’ said someone from behind.
Harper ignored the comment and looked at the body. ‘Both shoes are missing.’
‘We got them, Harper. One over by the restaurant trash and one just to her side.’
‘No pantyhose. You find that?’
‘Yeah. We think. Tan pantyhose over here.’
Harper looked again at the body. The upper body was clothed but the victim was naked from the waist down. The pants were thrown to one side.
‘You find any underwear? You find that?’
‘No. Nothing else.’
Harper was letting the scene piece together. Was it a rape and execution this time? A change in MO? Or just something staged to look like that?
He stood up and looked round. ‘I need light.’
Three sets of flashlights flicked to his feet.
‘We’re looking for one bullet, one cartridge.’
The team of four detectives started scouring the scene. ‘Crime Scene will get this, Harper, why we doing their job for them?’
‘Because, Garcia, it might link this case with the Capske case.’
‘As much as it pains me, I think you might have something,’ said Garcia.
Harper moved back to the corpse. He took out his gun and held it in front of him. He looked again at the head wound. ‘The angle’s all wrong. She wasn’t here when he shot her.’
‘Where?’
‘Maybe further up the alleyway.’
The other cops spread out. No cartridge. He looked across at the wall, tried to work out the angles. He started to move along the wall, taking in a three-foot-high band and looking closely. He saw a tiny glint of metal; moved up close. The bullet-hole was there, but the bullet had been taken already. ‘I got the slug-hole, gentlemen. Anyone got the slug?’
‘No one’s touched a thing,’ said Garcia.
‘Then the killer did it. He’s reading our reports and taking the piece of evidence that links these things. Still, there are fragments in here. We’ll know if it’s iron.’ Harper watched the CSU detective remove the tiny fragments in the bullet-hole and bag them.
Harper was closely examining the walls but there was no 88 to be found. He went back to the body. ‘Our killer’s changing. This is designed to shock. Naked from the waist down and up against the wall.’ He moved in close, peered beneath her smart black jacket: her white blouse was bloodstained, the buttons were undone. ‘I’ve found the 88,’ he said. ‘He’s cut her.’
‘So what’s the scenario?’ said Eddie.
‘Not sure this makes sense to me.’
Kasper pulled up close to Harper. ‘What is it?’
‘Motive?’ asked Harper.
‘Staged to look like a rape, maybe. So the motive is different. He kills because he’s a fucking psycho, but he puts her like that to confuse us.’
‘Yes, but she’s got bruising all up her arm and her pantyhose are ripped.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Why bother to stage it? Why write 88 on her chest like some big signature? I don’t think this was staged. I think he wanted to rape her. I don’t think he necessarily did, but he sure wanted to. Seems like he’s punished her for his desiring her.’
Harper crouched again. ‘She’s got dirty fingernails. Dirt across both knees too. She’s been kneeling in this alley. Just like Capske and Haeber.’ He stood and looked around the alleyway. ‘What do you suppose she was doing here? How did she get into this alley? She looks dressed for work.’
‘He’s brought her here or he’s forced her here.’
Harper suddenly stopped and listened.
‘What is it?’
He walked towards a dumpster and pulled his gun out. ‘There’s something in that dumpster.’
‘It’ll just be rats,’ said Eddie. But he drew his gun too and headed towards the sound.
Harper shouted, ‘Get out of there, right now!’
Nothing moved.
Harper moved in close. He moved behind the dumpster and yanked aside a large piece of cardboard. Two sets of eyes stared out at him.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harper exclaimed. ‘We got two kids back here.’
Chapter Sixty-One
North Manhattan Homicide
March
11, 5.34 p.m.
Denise Levene and Tom Harper sat across from Captain Lafayette, who was scowling. ‘I’m going to have to bawl you out about that Erin Nash article, but this takes precedence,’ he said. ‘What you got on the victim?’
‘Nothing. Not even a name. We’ve tried dental records, prints . . . She wasn’t carrying a phone or a purse. Maybe they were taken. No ID.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘They won’t talk. They’re not talking to anyone. Not a single soul. Shut up tight. The psychiatrist says it’s trauma, so I’m guessing that they saw the whole thing. Makes you want to hurt someone, doesn’t it?’ said Harper.
‘They won’t say a thing?’
‘Not a word. Doctor says it’s not voluntary,’ said Denise. ‘I spoke to him in person. He says they’ve frozen. I’m going to see them, see if I can get through, but I’m not promising anything.’
Captain Lafayette walked across to the large blue board that Harper had started to use to pin up images of the unidentified Jane Doe. Either side were the four other boards in chronological order. Haeber, Goldenberg, Capske, Cohen and Jane Doe.
Photographs of the crime scene and body were all they had and they made for a grim spectacle. ‘What do you make of it, Harper? This is his work, right?’
‘Yes. It’s his. Iron was found in the bullet. He wrote 88 on her chest.’
‘But she’s half-naked.’
‘Yeah, but we just got back from speaking to the Medical Examiner. We wanted to see right away if there’s any DNA or semen. There’s nothing. No evidence of actual rape.’
‘He’s losing control,’ said Denise.
‘How so?’
‘I think all his kills have been sexual, but he’s been repressing it, made it about hate. I think he’s finding that hard. He wanted to rape her. He staged it so it looked like he did, but he couldn’t do it, or hates himself for it, if that makes any sense.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
Denise stood and pointed at the photograph. ‘He’s left her in an explicit pose to humiliate her, but he’s covered her face. He’s never done that before.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s ashamed. Not of killing her, not of raping her. He’s ashamed of letting his desire control him. He didn’t plan to rape her, that would be my guess, which would mean that he might have left semen or pubic hair on the scene.’
‘Before you ask, we’re checking it, Captain,’ said Harper.
‘Do you have a story? Why the kids?’
‘We’re walking the streets, talking. She looks like she was at work or going to an interview.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Crime Scene found spit on the ground. Her spit. Quite a lot of it.’
‘Strange.’
‘She appears to be on her knees, leaning on one hand and she’s either dribbling or spitting. They reckon it’s spit.’
‘How?’
‘There’s a spray pattern.’
‘This some fetish we ain’t heard about?’
‘We’ve got to re-enact it, get some people to look at the possibilities.’
‘If only the children could talk.’
‘It’d save a lot of time, I know that, but for their sake, I hope they didn’t see anything.’
‘Unfortunately, the psychs think they saw the shooting,’ said Denise.
‘How did they get to be separated, unless they heard something and went to hide behind the dumpster?’
‘He couldn’t have known that they saw him, is my guess, or else he might have killed them too. At the moment we don’t even know if they are connected to her. We’ve got to keep their existence tight.’
‘No way we can do that, Harper, not long-term.’
‘Then our only alternative is to catch this guy soon.’
Lafayette remained silent. ‘Tell me what you’ve been itching to tell me,’ said Harper.
‘I had a call about the kids. I didn’t want to say. It might not mean anything.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘Both the kids are wearing Magen Davids around their necks.’
‘Wearing what?’
‘Jewish Stars of David,’ said Denise.
Harper stared back. ‘So this is definitely our fifth Jewish victim?’
‘And they gave the kids paper and pens. All the boy has been doing is writing 88 all over the paper. It’s compelling, as you say. See if you can find anything more. As soon as you get an ID on this body, I want to know. The press is going to make some connections of its own, you know? If I could prove that you spoke to the press as I imagine you did, I’d discipline you so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you, Harper. It’s caused me all kinds of shit upstairs.’
‘It’s good to know you’re helping, Captain.’
‘With the Capske and Cohen murders going national on every channel, another murder of a Jewish woman is going to give the media plenty to report. So we need some results now. People are getting spooked out there and we need an answer for them.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Levene’s Apartment, Lower Manhattan
March 11, 7.18 p.m.
Denise appeared outside her apartment block and Harper felt a surge of admiration. She was dressed for work, wearing a black suit with a white shirt, and looked every bit the young, ambitious, go-getting star she had been a few months earlier.
She got in the car beside Harper.
‘You ready for this? We need something from the children.’
‘Sure, I’m ready. At least we managed to get an interview with the psych team. I had my doubts.’
‘Lafayette got the Chief of Detectives behind us.’
‘The brass are beginning to believe us then?’ said Denise.
Harper nodded. ‘Reluctantly. The boy scrawled 88 all over his coloring book. He saw something. They can’t ignore that.’
‘Or heard something,’ said Denise.
‘Right. We only have one shot, though.’
‘I understand.’
‘You think you can argue your way in?’
‘What do you think, Tom?’
Harper smiled and started the drive across town to the children’s hospital. The kids were in a secure ward with police protection.
Despite several attempts to get to talk to the children, the psych team had refused on the grounds that the welfare of the children was paramount. The police needed someone who could convince the psych team to give them access to the children. Levene was a specialist, not a cop, but even so, it had taken some persuasion to set up the initial meeting, and there was no guarantee that the psychologist would allow them to actually meet the children.
As they went up to the seventh floor Denise straightened her jacket.
‘You look good,’ said Harper. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘You notice how I look?’ said Denise.
‘I notice. You’ve chosen pink nail varnish,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ve chosen a gentle color for the children. You usually wear a stronger color – crimson. The pink’s a little soft for you.’
Denise looked across at a now smirking Harper. They waited for half an hour before they were summoned into the room to see the children’s social workers. Denise pushed Harper out of the way. ‘Okay, now it’s my world, Tom. Let me do this alone.’
He took a seat, as directed by Denise, outside the room.
The psychologists sat in front of a big empty polished table, all with notebooks and case-files open and ready. Denise introduced herself, shook each hand and opened her own notebook.
‘This case is our number one priority at the moment,’ said the consultant child psychologist. ‘There are indications of extreme psychological trauma, which has unfortunately increased over time. Your friends at the NYPD don’t do subtle. Our staff have been given a hard time.’
‘No, they don’t do subtle,’ said Denise. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Listen, I’ll cut to the chase,’ said the consultant. ‘Our recommendation is that
we do not allow any questioning until we can see how these children are coping. They have suffered and will suffer even more trauma if we allow further access to them. They need time to recover.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Denise. ‘I understand what you are saying – and I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s an important principle here that I would like you to acknowledge.’
The consultant looked up, his expression indicating surprise but a grudging respect for Denise.
‘Your concern is for the welfare of these two children,’ said Denise. ‘And you’re right: an experienced detective will naturally exert psychological pressure during an interview. Two big guys in suits are scary. Guilt is scary. These children are suffering fear and guilt – that’s not the way to ease their pain. I entirely understand that you would not want them interviewed. In fact, normally I would support it, Doctor. There is nothing more important than the welfare of these two children.’
‘Thank you, Dr Levene.’
‘But here’s my point,’ Denise continued. ‘These two children, we believe, have lost their mother. What I want to offer, Doctor, is a chance for them to close this primary trauma, not shy away from it. I want them to understand who killed their mother and why, then you can work on the secondary trauma, their fears. They have seen irrational violence. We need to show them that a man, who was very sick, and very wrong, did this thing and is now locked up. Until we can tell them this story, they will not heal.’
Denise stopped and held the psychologist’s gaze. When she saw the movement in his throat, the tiny muscle twitch in his eye, she knew she had him.
‘So, Doctor, for the welfare of the children, I am suggesting that we need to know how their mother died and who killed her. If we find these two simple facts, we can begin to piece their world back together.’
She saw the consultant swallow.
‘First, though, you will need to know what I am asking for. I need three sessions, each lasting thirty minutes. I will ask them a single question about the event. I won’t repeat it. I’ve written the question here for you.’ Denise handed the piece of paper to the consultant. He read it, nodded, then passed it around the table. He waited, looked at each set of eyes.