“You are the vendor?” Solomon said.
“Yeah. I made the software,” Kevin said.
“Didn’t we pay forty million dollars for that?” Lisa asked.
“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Thanks?”
“Whatever. He’s got clearance. If he can help, great,” Captain Bell said.
“I can help,” Kevin said. “I want to.”
“What do you need to find the source of this video?” Captain Bell asked.
“I can almost assure you that we won’t, not in time. If you can get a warrant to force goregoregore.com to open up their user list, we can get the IP address for the source of the video. We probably won’t be able to trace it in two days, but I may be able to knock it out. So that nobody watches her…”
“I’ll get the court order,” Captain Bell said.
Greg grabbed Solomon by the arm. “That’s good enough. Keep up the work, kid.” Greg and Solomon left the room, Kevin followed behind them but went back to his desk rather than follow the detectives.
“Listen,” Greg said when they were alone. “Sol, this is a first for you, yeah?”
“First murder? No.”
“Serial killer.”
“Oh,” Solomon said. “Yeah. First one.”
Greg led Solomon down the stairs and out into the street. “This stuff changes you,” he said, looking both ways as they crossed the street to the deli. “You’re about to look evil right in the face.”
“I’m ready.”
“There’s no ready for this,” Greg said. “There’s just this. There’s just the job. There’s just me and you, Kevin and the captain, and it is us trying to make sure that girl does not die.”
“I get it,” Solomon said.
They reached the deli, and Greg took a seat in a booth in the corner, flipping their coffee cups over. Solomon did the same, and within seconds both were filled with coffee. “I’m not asking you to get it. Not asking you to understand. I’m asking you to take this one lead at a time, one step at a time, one person at a time. I’m telling you that we might fail.”
“It’s the job,” Solomon said.
“Not this, it isn’t,” Greg said, sipping his coffee after adding three creams and three sugars. “This isn’t anyone’s job. This is the stuff, you walk away from it before it is done, no one judges you. You leave homicide and end up on vice, or on white-collar crime, or pushing a fucking pencil or writing parking tickets and directing traffic, normally, they bust your balls. But then someone asks why you got busted down or you left, you say serial killer, they don’t bust your balls. They don’t judge. They nod their heads and go on with their fucking lives. This is the real shit. This is not something you process with logic at your own pace. This you can walk away from at any fucking time.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Solomon said, sipping his own coffee, black.
“Say it now, sure. Don’t feel like you need to say it forever. If this isn’t for you, it isn’t for you.”
“Is it for you?”
Greg put his right hand to his mouth and then ran it through his hair. “Five years back, after six years as a detective in homicide, we get called in to a stabbing. A kid in an apartment. Second kid in the building in three weeks. So that’s suspicious. But it looks like one of the parents did the first, and the same thing for the next — the parents do the second. Both were on meth, so they don’t even know what is happening, can barely defend themselves. Before we knew it there was a third dead kid and a fourth in that building, and then it stops. A month later, another druggie’s dead kid in a building four blocks north. And another the same building two days later. We go in. Same MO: kid, druggie parents, stops after the third in the building, this time.”
Greg emptied his cup and put it to the edge of the table, waiting for it to get refilled. “Next month, another building, another dead kid. So we get a list of everyone that just moved in that month. Find one guy who lived there and the previous address. Obviously, that’s our guy. We catch him. We ask him about it. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny. Insisted he did those kids a favor. Should not be raised by druggies, he says. Eight fucking kids, Sol. Eight fucking kids. Three before we saw there was a pattern, and then we had to keep watching, keep our fucking hands in our pants watching this happen until the pattern tightened around a single fucking unsub. And there he was. Just waiting to get caught.”
“You made it through.”
“Lots of counseling, Sol,” Greg said, his coffee refilled. “Lots of talking to people. Lots of restless nights wishing I could have figured it out, pinned it on that fucker one kid sooner, two kids sooner. Hell, why not in the first building? There’s cracks, Sol, cracks everywhere in our city. You know what amazes me as a cop? It amazes me there isn’t more crime. It blows my mind every day that in a city of twenty million people, only a few thousand — less than one hundredth of one percent — are criminals. And of those, maybe only one hundredth of one percent are the truly scary fuckers who kill like this. You and I know how easy crime is. Fuck, I’ve walked into crime scenes, and the first thing I do these days is try to game out how it could have been cleaner, what could have been done differently so that someone like me doesn’t see the clues, find the leads, and get the bad guy. And it isn’t hard. Right?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Good. And that’s the point. Crime is easy. And if the twenty million people in this city knew how easy it was, fuck, Sol, we would have two problems. One: there would be so much crime, no amount of cops could stop it. And two: people would walk around all day just waiting to be victims, just walking along on sidewalks waiting for something terrible to happen, for something to hit them.
“But none of that matters,” Greg said. “What matters is that you’re only getting through this if you can remember, whether he kills one kid or eight, three kids or a hundred, not a single one is your fault. This isn’t on you. It’s your job to find him, your job to follow the leads and to try to stop him. But he’s choosing to kill, he is choosing how and when and who, and none of it is on you. If you’re blaming yourself, you won’t make it through this. You’ll be off the squad quick, and there’s no shame in that. But I’d like to keep you around.”
Solomon nodded, and Greg seemed to feel that he had made his point. They finished their coffee, and Greg paid. They left the deli, Solomon heading back to his fancy Manhattan apartment and Greg headed to his Brooklyn duplex, probably half the size of Solomon’s pad, and home to his wife and two kids.
Chapter Eighteen:
Solomon
After Francine died, Solomon came stumbling out of The Dog and Duck. Sean was supporting him, walking him to the curb, where he hailed a cab. Solomon slurred, “What do I owe you?”
Sean waved a cabbie down and opened the door. He pushed Solomon in. “Sol, you’ll never pay for a drink in my bar again, you understand? The shit you’ve been through, Sol. Jesus. Tell the nice cabbie where you live.”
Solomon recited his address, and Sean gave the driver cash to cover the fare. “I’ll come check on you tomorrow.”
The cab pulled up to the curb in front of Solomon’s apartment building. Solomon stumbled out but made his way through the front door and to the elevator. He waited for the elevator as he swayed uneasily on his feet. The door opened, he stepped in, and hit the top button. After more swaying and a few seconds, the door opened again. He stepped out of the elevator, turned right, and went two doors down to his front door.
He reached into his pocket for his key but could not manage to pull it out. He took off his coat, pushed the pocket up to his face, and turned it inside out. The key fell to the ground. He picked it up with his left hand and put it into the lock, turning it and putting his right hand on the doorknob. He turned the knob, and the door gave. He was inside.
He slipped off his shoes while holding himself against the wall for balance. As his shoes came off, he noticed
a pink envelope on the ground. It had his name written on it. “Mrs. Leer,” he said, picking up the envelope and turning it over to see that it was Mrs. Leer’s personal stationary. He put it on the console table near the door in a bowl of wooden balls.
As he walked across his apartment toward his washroom, he began disrobing. He was naked by the time he crossed the threshold of the doorway into the washroom. He ran a cold shower, rinsed himself, and then turned the shower off and dried himself. He put on a pair of silk lounge pants and walked back across his apartment to his fridge, where he ate a banana. As he chewed, he went to the console table and clumsily opened the letter from Mrs. Leer.
Detective Roud,
My whole life, I did not know what I was looking for until I found you. I did not know how empty and meaningless my life was. I could not have imagined finding more fulfillment than I did last night. I look forward to getting to know you better.
When you answered your phone, I was listening. I don’t know what I wanted. I suppose I wanted someone to enjoy Francine’s death as much as I was. I guess that was always the plan, somewhere back there in my mind, to see if I could find another kindred spirit. Connections, human connections, matter. Failing that, I suppose I wanted someone to witness it and to be helpless — except you were not helpless. You found her. You almost found her in time, no less. So what I got was not a kindred spirit, which I suppose would have been nice, nor a helpless wreck, which may have been moderately enjoyable, but a capable foil, and that was thrilling.
I do wish that you did not immediately go out and get drunk over it. Seems it makes you an unfitting foil for me. But beggars can’t be choosers, right? You do have so much else going for you. You are wealthy — perhaps more so than me. You are well connected. You live in a beautiful apartment. And you gave up what could have been an easy life to become a detective and find, well, people like me. I don’t know why you’re doing it. Guilt? A lust for adventure? Maybe you just need to practice your detective skills, because you’re looking for something.
I was both excited and terrified as you inched closer to Francine. Naturally, I wanted her to die. In fact, I needed her to die — she had seen my face. She wouldn’t have known I was her killer, but maybe she would have guessed? Her survival would have forced me to run. I am not a very good risk-taker.
I watched her die — that I think you already knew. It was not the first person I’ve suffocated — that you probably guessed. I have known for a while that I needed to see victims both gasping for life and knowing that they are about to die. In the few instances I didn’t see it, I feel as if I hadn’t really killed anyone at all. In fact, I’d feel like I had to go out that same day and kill someone else. That’s not easy. This takes a lot of planning.
And then I discovered something even more thrilling than watching someone die: watching someone trying to save that life. Giving them just enough hope and then seeing them fail. Given how at-risk I am for being caught if you succeed, it is tantalizing and terrifying and gratifying in ways I did not know were possible.
It is something I need to explore. I need to push you closer and closer to catching me, give you more and more hope you’ll find my next victim in time. I need to choose better victims, too; ones that you will identify with, empathize with, care for, even though you’ve never found them. I have a hard-on just thinking about it.
I don’t know what any of this means. I only know I need to see this through. You understand.
Yours,
Psycho
The letter was not signed. It had been typed into a computer and printed on standard stock paper, then folded to fit into the stolen envelope. Solomon bagged it in a Ziploc from his kitchen. He reached above his fridge for a bottle of whisky and drank straight from the bottle, shaking his head. He picked up his phone and dialed.
“Yeah?” Greg said.
“You home?” Solomon asked.
“Yeah,” Greg replied.
“You get a letter?” Solomon asked.
“Nah,” Greg replied.
“I did. From the killer.”
“You sure?” Greg asked.
“Knew I was listening in when the girl died.”
“Fuck,” Greg said. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter Nineteen:
Greg
Greg arrived twenty-eight minutes later and walked into Solomon’s apartment without knocking. Solomon was leaning on his counter with the bottle in his hand. He looked up at Greg and held out the bottle. Greg took it. “How much have you had?” he asked.
“Just the first sip. I couldn’t, after that.”
“The letter?” Greg asked. Solomon held out the Ziploc bag. Greg put on a pair of gloves and pulled it out, reading it to himself as he walked over to Solomon’s living room and sat on the couch. Solomon followed but did not sit. Instead, he paced back and forth, still holding the whisky bottle.
“So it is him,” Greg said. “Knew you were listening. Knew we were watching. Verified withheld evidence. We will take this in. Dust it for prints. Check for hairs or other DNA.”
“There won’t be any,” Solomon said.
“I know; doesn’t matter. We will do a writing analysis. When we find suspects…”
“We won’t find suspects.”
“No, Sol. This guy isn’t better than us. He’ll fuck up. He will make a mistake. He’s exactly the kind of killer that gets caught. He’s begging to get caught. He’ll get closer and closer until he is caught.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Solomon said. “How close are we going to get? Will he need to kill once? Twice? Three times? A dozen?”
“We’re not responsible for that, Sol. We talked about this. You can get out anytime.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say. This guy is a psycho, and we’ll catch him. Just fucking kills me to think that somewhere out there tonight, sleeping soundly in their parents’ home, are one or two kids that are going to be killed, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“That’s exactly how he wants us to feel, Sol. This is your first serial killer. Not mine. I’ve got fifteen years on the force longer than you, and this ain’t my first rodeo. Yeah, some kids are going to die. This psycho knows it, and we know it. But we will catch him. We know it. And he doesn’t know that; not yet. So let’s get on with it, already.”
Solomon nodded and took a swig of whisky.
The next day, Solomon entered the room in the coroner’s office behind Greg. There were two chairs in front of a desk covered in papers but none on the other side. There was a man standing by an open window, his right hand extended out of the window, holding a cigarette. When he took a drag, he brought his head to his hand, breathed deep, and exhaled, his whole head out of the window.
“Still smells like shit in here,” Greg said.
“Detective,” the man said. “I hope you’re not here to write me up for this,” he added, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette onto the street below.
“Not likely, Doctor Maguire,” Greg said. “This is my partner, Detective Roud.”
“Sol,” Solomon said, extending his hand. The doctor dropped his cigarette, wiped his hand, and met Solomon’s hand with his own.
“Clive,” the doctor said. “Most coroners become coroners because they killed one too many patients during residency. We’re not all that attached to the idea of being called doctor.”
Greg sat, and Solomon did as well. Clive picked up his cell phone and hit a button. “Linda,” he said. He waited. “Linda!” He waited again and then yelled louder, “Linda, bring me the Goodwin girl file.”
A woman, much older than the doctor, came in. She was wearing a blue floral summer dress. “That’s your cell phone, Doctor.” She dropped a file on top of the pile on his busy desk and left.
“Well, I don’t know how to use the damn intercom, then,” Clive said.
“So what did we find?” Greg asked.
Clive, still standing, opened the file. “This guy is weird,” he said. “Pumped this girl with an IV solution and propofol. Kept her unconscious but very much alive for nearly seven days.”
“Does that mean he’s a pro?” Solomon asked. “A doctor or a nurse? Someone with training?”
“You might think so,” Clive said. “But fuck, no. This guy is an idiot. He’s lucky he didn’t kill her — and that wasn’t what he intended to do, kill her, for those seven days.”
“He wanted her alive,” Greg added.
“Yes, very much so. I gathered that much.” Clive flipped a few pages and then handed out pictures. “Notice the entry points for the IV. Sloppy. Very sloppy. Like someone who has learned how to do this reading a how-to on the Internet. He has likely never practiced on conscious people. My guess is he has indeed practiced this, trying to balance the right amount of propofol — it can be an art as much as a science. Got it right for this girl. But if you dig far enough, you will find a bunch more.”
“An amateur?” Solomon asked.
“A hobbyist,” Clive added. “Self-taught. Tougher to track that way, I suppose.”
“And the cause of death?” Greg asked.
“Asphyxiation,” Clive said, closing the file. “In a room that large, it would have taken a few hours at least to run out of air, but she did. And that’s how she died. That would have required practice, too, I assume, getting the room air-tight.”
“So you think there are more like this?” Solomon asked.
“I’m not a psychiatrist,” Clive said. “I rarely talk to my patients, and when my patients do talk back to me, it is normally because someone has made a grave error or I’m really rather drunk at work, which is much more rare since the nineties ended.”
The three spoke for a few more minutes until Clive broke the meeting, offering the two detectives a shot of whiskey. Both accepted. They left the office, saying goodbye to Linda, and then walked out of the building to Solomon’s car. There, they drove north to Georgia Goodwin’s apartment. They arrived early, so Solomon parked the car a block away and the two grabbed a coffee at a local shop. Solomon drank only half of his before throwing it away when the two detectives left to go to their appointment.
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