“Panned out?” Kravitz narrowed his eyes. “Your partner, Detective Mackey, lost his life.”
Before I could respond, Owens said, “You seem to have a history of losing partners.”
I gritted my teeth. Losing my cool would only hurt me. “The perp surprised Mackey. We followed procedure. It’s one of those things that never happen.”
“And Vanderburgh?” Kravitz didn’t blink as he stared at me. “That another one of those things that never happen?”
“What do you want me to say? Who anticipates a building collapse?”
Owens stood up. “You seem awfully cavalier about the deaths of two of Chicago’s finest.”
I spoke in a monotone voice. “There’s nothing funny about it at all, but if you’re somehow trying to lay blame on me—”
Kravitz said, “Let’s get back to Father Webber. We have eyewitness accounts that you took directions from him during the last standoff of the Casanova Killer, that you stood by as he and his band of priests went in to try to subdue him. What, did you think a band of bible-thumpers was a match for a serial killer?”
“Anytime a negotiator can convince a perp to surrender is a win in my books. Who cares if it’s by a psychologist or a priest?”
Owens pointed a finger at me. “But it wasn’t a win, was it? You didn’t make an arrest.” He threw up his hands. “You let him get away.”
I’d taken heat for that before, and though it was a black mark on my file, at least the killings had stopped. “Maybe I could’ve gone in a different direction.”
“Up until then, you had an exemplary record. In the past year, your arrest rate has fallen sharply.” Then, Owens took on a softer tone. “You know, it’s understandable. You get older, you get a little slower. It happens. Usually, when a cop figures out he’s been on the street too long, he decides to ride a desk until his pension kicks in.”
“I’m not that old—” I started to say defensively, but cut myself off. I didn’t want them to see any chinks in my armor.
Kravitz tag-teamed me. “Here’s the flip side of those stats. Whenever there’s a major case, you seem to be right smack in the middle.” He ticked off the fingers of his hand. “The Casanova Killer; the pimp who liked to drown his hookers—another one who got away—and now Lawrence Bukowski.”
With a knowing grin, Owens added, “And every time, this Father Webber seems to show up in the reports. It makes me wonder what the connection is.”
“But I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” Kravitz asked. “I mean, the divers found him at the bottom of Lake Michigan along with a dozen other priests and twenty bodies in cryogenic containers. Doesn’t it seem odd that you were closely associated with so many dead people?”
“I don’t know if you’re trying to pin the sinking of that ship on me, but I was in the hospital at the time.”
“Still leaves us with more questions than answers, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” I said, though the opposite was the case. I couldn’t let them find out the true purpose of the priests was; why they’d been keeping all those bodies on ice.
“Then you won’t mind answering this for me.” Owens tossed the open file in front of me. To my surprise, it wasn’t a file on me; it was on someone else. “You’re on official leave. Why are you looking for Father Larry Putnam?”
“Or, should we just call him ‘Mr.’?” Kravitz said. “Since the church has officially excommunicated him.”
The file showed a photograph of the priest on one side with a bio sheet underneath it. On the other flap, there was a faxed arrest report sitting on top of several other pages.
They caught him!
Trying to keep my voice as level as possible, I said, “Because when I catch up with him, I’m going to bury the bastard in as deep a hole as I can dig.” I glanced at Owens. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Why? I thought he was one of your CI’s?”
“Him? No. I only met him a few hours before the standoff at Enoch Enterprises.”
“Then why the hate?”
I pointed to the photo of Putnam. “You want to find out about all those priest bodies at the bottom of Lake Michigan? I have it on account that he was on the cargo ship before it exploded. I think he had a hand in it. He’s also threatened some of my friends…”
“That all?”
I felt a darkness settle over me. “I hate being played. These priests held back information for their own gain. As far as I’m concerned, their little game cost three police officers and how many civilians their lives.”
Kravitz asked, “You have anything more substantial than suspicion? Where’d you get the information? Witnesses?”
I shook my head and ground my teeth. “Rumors, really. Nothing I can take to a prosecutor. But Putnam was Father Webber’s second-in-command. He knew everything.”
“So far, he’s not talking to anyone.”
I motioned to the arrest sheet, noticing that it was dated today, and it was from a New York precinct. “Give me half an hour with him, and I’ll get it all out of him.”
“Believe me,” Owens said, “we’d love nothing more, but at this point, all we’ve got on him here in Chicago is real estate fraud and tax fraud. We have no evidence he was involved in the cargo ship sinking. New York won’t hand him over.”
There had to be a good reason for that. I scanned the report and saw the grounds for arrest.
I looked up at Kravitz and Owens in surprise. “Suspicion of homicide?”
“You know anything about that?” Kravitz asked.
Giving him an incredulous look, I said, “How the hell would I know anything about that? I just read it right now.”
The two of them glanced at one another, and then Owens snatched the file back.
“What’s a murder in New York got to do with Internal Affairs here in Chicago, anyway?” I asked.
My mind was on the priest, though. What the hell was he doing in New York? Who had he killed? I needed to find out who the arresting officer was.
At the same time, I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. New York: I hadn’t been back there in twenty-five years.
Kravitz took a few moments to come to a decision. “When they arrested Putnam, they came across the BOLO you put out on him. The station captain put in a request for all files we have on him—including yours—but since we had an open inquiry into the Lawrence Bukowski shooting, we had to accelerate our investigation before we could release any information.”
“And…?” I asked.
“We still have to submit our findings to the board, but—” He glanced at his partner. “—we’re recommending exoneration.”
I sighed with relief.
“It was a justified shooting.” Owens stood up. “Your captain should expect the official report sometime this afternoon.”
Standing up, I asked, “So what’s with the third-degree on the priests?”
Kravitz nodded. “Like you said, we’ve got over a dozen bodies to account for. The higher-ups want to know why. You’re the only one who had any history with their organization.”
“Just covering your bases, huh?” I stood up and nodded at them. “If I had anything, you can bet your pension that you’d have it, too.” I hated lying to a fellow cop, but I knew there wasn’t a person on the force who would believe the story.
Kravitz shared a look with Owens. “There’s one other reason we expedited this investigation.”
“Oh?”
“We told you Putnam wasn’t cooperating with them, but he did say one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That the only person he’d talk to was you.”
I kept any reaction to the news from my face. “I can see why that might raise a red flag.”
“Yeah.” Owens nodded toward the door. “You’ll probably get the word from your captain, but I’d suggest you get your bags packed.”
I felt my heart skip a beat. “Let me guess…”
“
NYPD’s put in an official request. You’re going to New York.”
Chapter Four
And these are the names of their leaders: Samlazaz, their leader, Araklba, Rameel, Kokablel, Tamlel, Ramlel, Danel, Ezeqeel, Baraqijal, Asael, Armaros, Batarel, Ananel, Zaqiel, Samsapeel, Satarel, Turel, Jomjael, Sariel. These are their chiefs of tens.
–Book of Enoch 6:7-8
I kept my composure until the two detectives left the briefing room. The moment they were out of sight and hearing, I swore aloud.
New York!
I never thought I’d go back there again. There were too many bitter memories. After Scott Goodwin’s death, I’d gone through the meat-grinder of an internal affairs inquiry, one that hadn’t been as quick and painless as today’s.
It was rare for a rookie to be involved in such an incident on their first day. Every action I took was examined, turned inside-out, and questioned over a six-week period, at the end of which, I was exonerated.
Though I was found blameless, my captain at the time told me that it would forever be a dark spot on my record, and my chances of getting a gold badge in the near future were slim. No one wanted to work with me; Goodwin’s death was a bad omen, and no one wanted to chance fate.
At the end of my first year, having spent the time working in the evidence locker, I resigned. I toyed with the idea of becoming a private investigator, but the pay at the bottom of the ladder was less than I got working night security back home in Trenton—the only other job I could find in my line of work. My father offered me a clerk position at his firm, but the last thing I wanted was a desk job anywhere.
After eighteen months, I decided to break out of my rut and apply to every other major police department in the country.
Chicago was the first to reply with an offer.
I accepted right away, and never looked back.
I thought about my brief time on the NYPD. I wondered if any of the rookies I graduated with were still there; I hadn’t kept in touch with anyone. That was probably for the best. With any luck, there wouldn’t be anyone around who remembered me. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of the job at hand.
Whatever reservations I’d had about going back faded in comparison to the news.
Putnam. He said he’d only talk to me. I swallowed at the thought. Why me?
Whether he was a priest or not, I knew in my heart that he was a mass murderer. He’d sabotaged the cargo ship, killing Father Webber, the other priests in their society, and the twenty Watcher hosts.
Apparently, he’d continued his rampage in New York, but had been caught. I could only guess at the reasons he would kill someone. Most likely, he thought the victim was a Watcher host—but that made no sense; the unholy spirit of the Watcher would simply transfer to the next available host in the bloodline. Had he tried to perform a Ritual of Binding, and it had gone bad?
* * *
When I got back to the captain’s office, I found out the situation was much worse, and much more complicated than the internal affairs officers had indicated.
“It was four murders,” Captain Ritzik growled, looking up at me. “And they were all cops!”
“What?”
He pointed to the phone. “I just got off the horn with Captain Armstong from the Brooklyn precinct where they’re keeping Father Putnam.”
“He killed four of them?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Without invitation, I sat down on the chair opposite the captain.
He shook his head. “He didn’t kill anyone, exactly … they think.”
“Huh?”
“They don’t know the extent of his involvement.”
I squinted at him. “What do you mean?”
The captain took a deep breath. “It all happened within the first ten minutes after midnight.”
“What?” I asked again. “A spree?”
Growling, the captain said, “Multiple locations; multiple perpetrators. It looked coordinated, though, which is what’s got everyone worked up.”
“What, exactly, happened?”
Captain Ritzik looked around the room without focusing on anything.
Finally, he said, “At one minute past midnight, the first officer, who was on foot patrol near the Hudson, was attacked by a gang of youths. As it was described by witnesses, the perps beat him to death with baseball bats.”
I felt my throat constrict. “What?”
Nodding, Ritzik continued, “Two minutes later, an officer stopped at a red light in Oceanside, near Long Island. Street cameras showed a black pickup—no plates, tinted windows—pull alongside. The officer rolled down his window and turned to the passenger side of the truck. The Molotov cocktail thrown into his vehicle caught him off guard.” His voice dropped in pitch when he said, “He didn’t survive the attack.”
“That’s …” I couldn’t summon any words.
Wiping his mouth and rubbing his chin, the captain said, “Five minutes past twelve, an off-duty police officer’s house in Queens was invaded by two masked men. Neighbors reported half a dozen shots fired. When first responders arrived, they discovered the officer and his wife dead in their beds; they’d never had a chance.”
“What do they think—?”
He shook his head to cut me off. “Everyone has a theory; what they’re short on is facts.” He leveled his gaze at me. “The last killing is the most detailed.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Four…!
Ritzik ground his teeth. “They caught the incident on two traffic cameras and the dash cam of a patrol car in Brooklyn. At nine minutes past midnight, a rental car collided with the police vehicle. The officer, unharmed from the accident, got out to check on the other driver. That was when a third man, dressed in black leather and wearing a motorcycle helmet, approached from behind and put a single bullet through the back of the officer’s head.”
“Just like that?”
The captain said, “Worse. The bastard pulled out a cell phone and took a picture of his kill, then ran off.”
I felt a sinking sensation at the news. For some reason, the killer needed proof of his kill. “Pro?” I asked. “Fame-hunter?”
Shrugging, Ritzik leaned forward. “When the responders arrived at the scene, the officers revived the driver of the rental car, who turned out to be Father Larry Putnam. After he regained consciousness, the officers arrested him, not just because of his involvement in the accident, but because of something he said when he saw the dead cop beside the car.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said, ‘This is only the beginning. There will be many more deaths to come.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Sitting back in the chair, Ritzik cocked his head. “After that, they couldn’t get Putnam to say anything else except—”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, “that he’d only talk to me.”
Ritzik nodded. “Putnam’s behavior suggests he has an idea what’s going on. For all we know, he might be the mastermind behind it.” He raised a questioning eyebrow at me.
I shrugged. It was a possibility, but I couldn’t commit to an answer.
Ritzik pointed to the phone again. “I told Captain Armstrong you might be able to fill in the blanks.”
“I have no idea what Putnam’s doing there, or what’s going on.”
“Maybe not, but at this point, you know Putnam and what he’s capable of better than anyone in New York. You think you can get him to talk?”
“Oh,” I said, “I have no doubt he’ll talk. He’s the kind of guy who likes an audience. The question is: will he tell us what we want to know, or will he just tell us enough to get us to dance to his tune?” I still felt sore about Father Webber, and how he’d played me for months, all the while hiding his true intentions.
“Good. Listen,” he said, “do me a favor.”
“Yeah. Anything.”
“Keep in touch.” He pointed outside his office. “The story’s landed; everyone’s taken an interest.
It would be better if they get the information from me before they hear it on the news.”
“Right.” I stood up to leave. “I’ll report in as often as I can.”
“Annette’s made flight arrangements for you already. She’s probably dropped the tickets off on your desk. You’re on the first flight out this morning. And Hollingsworth…”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I wish this Father Putnam character had gone down with that ship along with all the other psychotic priests.”
“Me too,” I said.
* * *
Back in my office, I got a few things squared away: I checked my messages and changed my voicemail; filed some paperwork that had been collecting dust for the past week; signed several forms Annette had brought, restoring me to full duty; reviewed the travel itinerary; and, finally, I turned on my computer to check my emails. There were dozens of official alerts and memos, and I scanned through them as quickly as I could.
Then I opened a browser and logged into a private message board, one that Eugene Yates—Richard Riley’s hacker friend from Vancouver, Washington—had set up on a secure server.
There were no new topics since the last time I’d been there. When we’d parted ways, we’d agreed only to post if there were any important developments.
I decided the situation in New York fit into that category. It was a good bet Yates would already know about Father Putnam—he scanned all major newsfeeds on a regular basis—but it would be news to him that I was going to be in the middle of it.
Yates had warned me not to write anything too specific; he was paranoid enough to assume the worst. Someone could have installed a keylogger on my computer. It was possible someone might break through his server’s firewall. We had to expect that Grigori Ventures knew all about us, and that they’d take measures to keep tabs on our activities.
Idly, I wondered how they were making out with their own surveillance on Grigori Ventures. I was sure they’d tell me if there were any new developments.
Clicking on the ‘new topic’ button, in the subject line I typed, Travel Plans. In the message box, I wrote: Heading back home to see an old friend. Will let you know how he’s doing.
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 82