Fear the Night

by John Lutz

  Not among them this time. Not quite.

  The service appeared to be over now. The fifty or so mourners were turning away from the grave and milling around almost as if they were in a trance. They were repelled by death but didn’t want to rush away and insult it, provoke it.

  There was Repetto, and alongside him the woman who must be his wife, Lora, and possibly their daughter. They were talking to a woman in a hat with a flat black rim. She touched Repetto’s upper arm gently and hugged Lora and the younger woman; then the three women left Repetto and walked together toward the parked cars. Captain Melbourne approached Repetto, along with a man and woman.

  Cops in plainclothes. The Night Sniper could spot them even from this distance, and it was made easier because he knew who they were: Detectives Meg Doyle and Birdy Bellman. Research was the Sniper’s specialty. He’d done his homework and knew about both of them. Doyle was a loose-tongued, sometimes insulting young woman made cynical by a recent divorce. Bellman was a middle-aged, frenetic little man who couldn’t sit still very long in one place. The Night Sniper knew something about many of the NYPD homicide detectives. There were plenty of ways to learn, in this high-tech information age when everybody—even homicide detectives—claimed or were thrust into their fifteen minutes of fame. The NYPD liked to brag about its personnel, on the Internet at official and unofficial sites, and in small-print publications that chronicled the world of law enforcement. It was good public relations.

  Now the Night Sniper would learn even more about Doyle and Bellman, as he had about Repetto. The intrepid Repetto had experienced great tragedy in his youth, then had fallen into kind hands. The loss, in a sense, had ended, the torn heart partially healed. The Night Sniper had experienced no such luck. Not in time to save him from the streets, and from the demons of the dark.

  Luck was the difference. Luck was what defined and separated most people, no doubt including Doyle and Bellman. The Night Sniper would be even more familiar with them soon enough.

  To fully experience and appreciate the game about to be played out on life’s stage, the grand theater of death and vengeance that had only begun, it was best to know the players.

  His fellow actors, who were about to play the roles of their lives.

  8

  Meg, Repetto, and Birdy stood loosely side by side. Repetto raised his old .38 Smith & Wesson revolver and fired six rapid shots at the target twenty yards down the range. They were at the outdoor shooting range at Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx, on a peninsula jutting into Long Island Sound. Repetto had insisted they come here in the unmarked directly from the cemetery, after only a brief stop so he could get some things from his car before his wife and daughter drove it home. The other shooters at the range wore casual clothes. Meg and Birdy had removed their jackets, and Birdy had loosened his tie. Repetto remained fully clad in his dark suit, his tie knot neat and severely bound. Blasting away in his mourning clothes.

  He reloaded.

  Repetto’s handsome but worn features were set and hard with grief and determination. Meg had been told Bricker was like a son to him. Looking at Repetto, Meg couldn’t prevent a lump from welling up in her throat.

  “You don’t look so good, Captain,” she said. “We can wait till tomorrow if you want to discuss this, or even later today—”

  “I’m okay,” Repetto interrupted. “And time’s important. Otherwise I’d be home with my wife and daughter serving cake to well-wishers.”

  In answer, Meg got off two careful shots at her target. It hadn’t felt right; despite taking her time, she hadn’t set herself.

  Repetto lifted an old pair of oversize binoculars he’d brought from his car.

  “Two in the middle,” he said. “Not bad.”

  She felt immediately better.

  Birdy used the point and shoot method, firing quickly and relying on instinctive aim. He’d learned it was the best method of shooting if you didn’t have the steadiest hands. When he lowered his 9mm Glock, Repetto peered through the binoculars and said, “Uh-hm.”

  He let the binoculars fall on their leather neck strap and turned away from the range to look at Meg and Bellman. Meg felt Birdy shift his weight slightly beside her. Repetto’s eyes, blue and with the cold spark of diamonds, had the same unsettling effect on him that they’d had on her. Here was a man in the thrall of a mission larger than his life. If the Night Sniper wanted a worthy opponent, he’d sure found one.

  Meg holstered her gun. She hoped Repetto hadn’t noticed her hand was trembling.

  He said, “Two things. One is, despite the temporary rank, I’m on unofficial status, so call me Repetto.” He wasn’t quite ready to be on first-name-basis familiarity. “Two is we are going to nail this son of a bitch!”

  Meg surprised herself by smiling slightly. Adrenaline, maybe. “I’ll remember both of them.”

  “And I will,” Birdy said beside her in his gravelly voice. Meg saw that his index finger was nervously twitching where it was extended along the barrel of his Glock.

  Repetto had apparently had enough shooting. He slipped his loaded revolver into its belt holster, then led the way back to where the car was parked. From the backseat floor he retrieved the scuffed, black leather briefcase he’d brought with him. He opened the briefcase and drew out two brown cardboard packets with their flaps tied with string wrapped around metal grommets. He laid them on the sun-warmed trunk lid of the car. “These are the murder files on all the Night Sniper victims, copies for both of you. When we leave here, take yours with you and study it.”

  “Study it some more, you mean,” Meg said. “When Birdy and I knew we had this assignment, we went over all the material and talked about it.”

  Repetto smiled at her through the grief and cold purpose that possessed him. “Good. Come to any conclusions?”

  “He likes to play,” Birdy said, slipping back into his suit coat he’d carried slung over his arm. “They all do to some extent, but the game is a big part of this one’s sickness.”

  “That’s more or less what Zoe Brady says,” Meg added.

  Repetto was surprised. “The profiler’s already talked to you?”

  “Not personally. It’s what she wrote in a summary of her findings. Also, he’s a sadist.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Birdy said, drumming his fingertips on the trunk.

  Meg momentarily rested her hand on his to quiet the drumming fingers. They’d been partners long enough that she could do that and neither of them thought much of it. “For the most part, they are. But if our killer was driven primarily by sadism, he’d want to get up close and see the effects on his victims, instead of shooting them with a long-range rifle from far enough away that he can’t see and feel their shock and fear.”

  Repetto looked at her. “But I thought you got from Zoe Brady’s material that she thinks this guy’s engine is sadism.”

  “She didn’t exactly say that,” Meg told him. “I surmised that’s what she thinks.”

  He gave her a look that bored into her. Somebody on the range got off a long volley with something large-caliber, overwhelming the staccato reports of smaller firearms. “You put much stock in profiling?”

  “Some, is all.” Meg shrugged. A cloud moved away and she squinted against the sun. “Science, applied to a nutcase with a rifle, I don’t know how accurate that can be.”

  “I’ll take a good cop’s hunch any day,” Repetto said. He nodded toward Bellman. “What Birdy said makes sense, about the game playing, the challenge. It means a lot to our sniper.” He reached again into his briefcase and removed a folded sheet of white paper. “This’ll make Birdy’s view of the Sniper seem even more accurate.”

  The paper was a copy of a typed note sent to Repetto, care of the NYPD. It said simply, Now the Game begins.

  There was no letterhead and no signature.

  “Plain, cheap white paper and envelope,” Repetto said, before they could ask. “Sold in office supply stores and even drugstores. Same typewriter used on the en
velope as on the note, probably a forty-year-old Royal manual. Mailed at the post office at Third and Fifty-fourth Street.”

  “Busy place,” Birdy said.

  “Latent Prints couldn’t lift anything from the paper or envelope, and there’s no thumbprint on the stamp. Not even DNA on the back of the stamp.”

  “Careful guy,” Meg said.

  “One who plans.”

  “Profilers call the planners organized serial killers,” Birdy said.

  “Fuck profilers.” Repetto realized as soon as he’d spoken that he’d overreacted. “Well, not really. We need to factor in what they say.”

  “What Zoe Brady says,” Meg told him.

  “Right. Let’s concentrate on our killer, not Zoe Brady.”

  Meg and Birdy glanced at each other.

  “He doesn’t use a sound suppresser,” Meg said. “He’s obviously an expert shot and must know something about firearms, so why doesn’t he use a silencer?”

  “Maybe he can’t afford one,” Birdy said.

  “He’d steal one. I think he knows that here in New York sound bounces around the buildings, and it’s impossible to know exactly where a shot came from. In each of the murders the sound of the sniper’s rifle echoed off all the hard surfaces so witnesses not only had no idea of the shot’s origin, some of them weren’t even sure if only one shot was fired.”

  “He’d still be safer with a silencer,” Birdy said.

  “Maybe,” Meg said. “But the rest of us would feel safer, and he doesn’t want that. We wouldn’t jump every time a car backfires or somebody drops something that makes a sudden sound like a gunshot. Our sniper likes the echoing crack of his rifle. It adds to the fear factor. He wants everyone to be on edge, afraid of him.”

  Repetto cocked his head as if listening to the rattle of gunfire from the range, then looked at Meg. “You’re probably right that he’s primarily interested in gamesmanship and evoking a general kind of fear, rather than in sadism.”

  “Only probably,” Birdy pointed out. “And he might be interested in a general kind of sadism.”

  Repetto nodded. “We know about the game playing because of his contacts with the police, his insistence on me as an opponent, and the typed note. The rest of it’s speculation, but it’s worth keeping in mind.” He focused again on Meg. “What you surmise about the reason he doesn’t use a silencer fits in. Our man not only enjoys the fear factor, but it’s a strategic plus. It’s exactly the kind of thing I was hoping might come out of rereading the murder files.”

  Meg felt a flush of pleasure at his approval. Why should I feel this way? I hardly know this guy. He’s not my father.

  The shooter with the high-powered weapon opened up again. Meg thought she could smell gunpowder, though she knew they were too far away from the range unless the breeze was just right.

  Repetto closed his briefcase and buckled a strap. “Let’s get to work revisiting the crime scenes and talking to witnesses, see if something new clicks. We do the grunt work. The we is you two. I’ve still gotta study these files.”

  “So you’re the official Captain Repetto sometimes,” Meg said with a grin, trying a joke.

  “All the time, actually,” Repetto said, not smiling. “But usually we’ll pretend otherwise.”

  Jesus! She felt her insides shrivel. Make it better? Tell him I was kidding? No. Shut up. Don’t make it worse. The man’s virtual son was murdered days ago and he’s in mourning. I shouldn’t have played it light.

  Or maybe he was amused and joking back. Possible ...

  “The work’ll keep us busy while we wait,” Repetto said, opening a rear door of the unmarked and tossing the briefcase far enough inside that he’d have room to sit.

  “Wait for what?” Birdy asked, as he and Meg moved to get into the car.

  In a nanosecond he realized it had been a dumb question.

  They all knew what.

  Vito Mestieri owned and worked long hours in Vito’s Screwdriver, his small appliance and TV repair shop on the Lower East Side. He’d gotten out of the army thirty years ago after Vietnam and inherited the shop from his father. Now Vito, slowed by age and hindered by rheumatic fingers, was considering selling the shop. He wished he had a son of his own to hand down the business to, but both his marriages had been bitter and childless.

  He had friends, fellow Nam vets who met once a week to play poker and tell lies. But the Vietnam vets were gray and potbellied now, like Vito, and were slowly fading from the earth they way the World War Two guys had done. Vito knew that someday soon the Times obituary page would make a deal out of the last Nam vet dying. Maybe he’d be the one, but he doubted it. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t read it.

  Vito flipped the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED and stepped outside. He unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and by feel found the one that fit the dead bolt lock on the door.

  The lock gave a satisfying metallic click. No one had broken into the shop for over a year, since Vito had changed the lock and had the alarm system installed.

  He clipped the ring back on his belt and stepped away from the locked door, and felt a sudden, sharp pain high on his side, near his armpit. At first he thought a bee or wasp had stung him. Then he took a few steps, experienced a different, deeper pain, and felt for the source of the first stinging sensation.

  His hand came away bloody and he was back in Nam. He knew he’d been shot.

  Had to get help!

  The narrow side street was deserted except for some people up near the intersection. Vito raised a hand, tried to call out. The pain stilled his voice.

  Back inside. Call 911!

  He turned back toward the door and felt an overpowering weakness.

  Then from the corner of his eye he saw a car turn the corner and start down the street in his direction.

  Someone to drive me to a hospital!

  He turned back away from the door and staggered out into the street, trying to scream for the car to stop, trying to wave his arms. Helpless, bubbling gasps were the only sounds he made, and his arms, which he thought he was waving, were hanging limp at his sides.

  The car had been picking up speed. Now the driver saw Vito and stomped on the brake pedal. Yanked the steering wheel to swerve around Vito.

  Rubber screamed as the car skidded sideways. Vito tried to get out of the way but fell. The car did a 180-degree turn and the back wheels rolled over him.

  The driver, an eighteen-year-old Hispanic kid, was slumped on the curb weeping when the police arrived.

  He felt somewhat better a few hours later, when he learned that when the car had rolled over Vito, he was already dead from a gunshot wound.

  9

  After being up most of the night, Repetto met with Meg and Birdy around ten the next morning at the Hobby Hole in the West Village. In the evening the place served dinner and drinks and was a lesbian jazz club. During the day it was breakfast and lunch and the clientele was more varied. All the time they served their specialty, warm biscuits with a sweetly flavored butter. It was within walking distance of Repetto’s house and he ate there often, whatever the time or sexual orientation. He didn’t give a damn; he was there for the biscuits.

  Not this morning, though. He and Lora had eaten breakfast at home.

  There was only one other customer, up near the front of the restaurant and out of earshot. A burned bacon scent hung in the air and would have made Repetto hungry if he hadn’t already eaten.

  “I’m just having coffee,” he said.

  “Us too,” Meg said, speaking for Birdy. “We had doughnuts just a few hours ago.”

  Birdy tapped out a pattern with his fingertips on the table and nodded.

  Meg hadn’t been in here before. She tried not to look at what seemed to be a collection of photos of nude women but for cowboy boots and hats on the wall near the bar. They seemed to be spinning lariats. The server, a slim young woman somehow feminine in boots, baggy jeans, studded leather vest, and a butch haircut, poured thre
e cups of coffee, left a small metal pitcher of cream, then withdrew.

  When she was out of earshot, Repetto said, “Let’s go over what we have on Vito Mestieri.”

  Meg sipped her coffee. Birdy seemed to have nothing to say, so she led. “Central fact is he’s dead. Ballistics says the bullet’s misshapen from bouncing around his rib cage, so they can’t get a match on it.”

  “Not that it would match anyway,” Birdy said. “Different gun for each victim. Our guy must have an arsenal.”

  “Gun nut,” Meg said.

  “Which is why we’re gonna start checking out gun merchants and collectors,” Repetto said.

  “We’re still trying to find out where the shooter fired from, but it looks pretty hopeless. He knows the sound of the shot will echo and be impossible to trace.”

  The baggy-jeaned server paused walking past their table and asked if anyone needed anything, looking at Meg.

  Meg said maybe later.

  Birdy winked at her.

  Meg didn’t like what must be going on in his mind. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the photos of the scantily clad cowpunchers. Or that he was gentleman enough not to mention them. The man seldom disappointed.

  “Suppose he knows it enough to choose firing sites where he’ll get the most echoing effect,” Repetto said. “Let’s put ourselves in his head and check out buildings and rooftops surrounded by a lot of hard surfaces.”

  “That’s just about every building in New York,” Birdy said dismally.

  “Some more than others,” Meg said, sticking up for Repetto as if he needed it. Birdy began nervously pumping a knee, making the table vibrate. Were they ganging up on him?

  “Mestieri would be the first,” he said.

  Repetto and Meg looked at him.

  “The first victim in the game,” Birdy said. “Since the Night Sniper said the game was beginning.”

  “He’s right,” Repetto said. “The previous murders were prelude.”