by Oliver Stark
He watched the people pass him on the street. Small-minded people living limited lives. They had no purpose. The next victim hadn’t arrived yet. She had been harassed by the bottom-feeders of Section 88. A series of minor attacks. She had informed the police. It was her only mistake to try to use the police. He was the force in power, not the NYPD. He didn’t like to be undermined. It was ironic that her attempt to find help was the reason she would die slowly and without pity.
What was startling to him was his own capacity for death. His appetite was growing and his hunger came back every day. He knew the police were closing in, too. He felt their proximity; he felt harried. Perhaps that’s what it was, an awareness that time for the project was short. He needed more to die.
She had children, two of them. They would be orphans soon. He would take her and continue his experiments. How much pain can someone stand? He himself had borne much. Much more than they had and he was still alive. But they were weak.
He could see Rebecca Glass laughing and joking as she walked along the street, swinging arms, singing a song with her two children. Recently divorced, after her husband’s affair was discovered. She seemed to be coping, but he suspected she cried at night and wondered if she would always be alone.
Crimes were crimes, though, thought the killer, and no amount of forced happiness would protect her from the necessary — the arrest, interrogation, torture and execution. It was what was required and he would not fail in his duty.
He had to wait until she was alone, that was all. He had read about a new experiment for this victim. Then, when she had suffered all she could suffer, when he had wrung her out like a wet cloth and all that was left was a soulless carcass, then and only then would he allow her to die.
Chapter Forty-Two
Lower Manhattan
March 9, 6.58 p.m.
Harper stopped on his way to Ballistics. He parked his car and got out to look over the river. He put his binoculars up to his eyes and started to scan the bridge and the nearby rooftops. It was nesting time for the winged predators of the city. He looked out across the sky for peregrine falcons. The city was now home to over a dozen pairs. It’d taken years to reintroduce these raptors but they’d taken to the city well. Strange as it seemed, it was a home away from home for the birds — except these cliffs and mountaintops were made not of rock but of concrete, iron and steel.
As he watched, he could hear the chorus of dawn song against the sound of traffic already making its way into the city from Brooklyn and beyond. Harper moved slowly across the ramp and down towards the water.
After a couple of hours, he spotted a peregrine swoop across from a building on Dover Street to the vantage point on one of the Gothic pylons of the bridge. It might even have been nesting there on the makeshift cliff face.
Harper focused on the bird, its head making rapid movements left to right, its dark glossy eye alert, its body holding an imperious pose. The peregrine — known as The Wanderer.
There were no other birds in flight — the presence of the falcon had scared them all away. The falcon was the supreme predator. It could dive at speeds no other animal could reach — up to 240 m.p.h. had been clocked by a diving falcon. The impact of those claws at that speed, taking out a pigeon mid-flight, was something to behold.
Harper’s cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out quickly, thinking it might be Denise Levene. It wasn’t. He put the cell to his ear. ‘What is it?’
‘Man,’ said Eddie Kasper, ‘you really got to work on that phone etiquette.’
‘I’ve got a Ballistics report to pick up.’
‘I got something.’
‘What is it?’ Harper repeated.
‘You ask nicely and I might tell you.’
‘Sorry, I’m outta polite.’
‘You’re your own special category of impolite, Harps.’
Harper put his binoculars to his eyes as the falcon rustled its feathers, flexed its wing muscles and pushed off from the pylon. It was a magical sight, watching it climb higher and higher above the river.
‘You found us a new body?’
‘I didn’t say it’s a homicide,’ said Eddie.
‘I don’t get any other kind of calls, Eddie.’
The falcon rose higher with an effortless beat of its wings, its head scanning the air below, looking for prey.
‘I got wind of a homicide down in South Manhattan with some similarities to our case. I thought you might want to hustle your way in.’
‘What are the connections?’
‘Female. Single gunshot wound. Name’s Marisa Cohen.’
‘She’s Jewish?’
‘She’s called Cohen.’
‘It’s not Lukanov.’
‘Or it’s not only Lukanov,’ said Eddie.
Harper picked up the falcon riding a thermal, silent, with wings outstretched. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his fingertips tingle. His case had jumped back to life.
‘This is escalating way too quickly. I’m at the Brooklyn Bridge,’ he said. ‘Get right over here, Eddie.’
Harper put his phone back in his jacket and looked up at the sky. The falcon was focused. It had seen its prey.
In Lower Manhattan, Eddie and Harper drove up to Downing Park where the body had been found. South Manhattan Homicide was already on the scene in numbers. Harper got out of the car and looked at Eddie.
It was getting gloomy. The two detectives squinted into the bright lights of the crime scene. Another body meant that Lukanov wasn’t the killer or that there was more than one.
Harper walked across. The crime scene was next to the park, in the courtyard of a haulage company working right on the river. Up above, they could see traffic all the way along FDR to the Brooklyn Bridge and beyond.
‘This road never gets quiet, not even at four a.m.,’ said Harper.
‘What’s your point?’
‘The point is, if this is the killer, it’s something I didn’t consider from the first kill. He might get excited by the idea of getting caught, so he commits crimes close to where people can see. Esther and David were both murdered in public places. He might like the risk. I think he might get off on it.’
‘I don’t know what you got in that head; all I see is the world’s dullest haulage lot.’
Harper walked over to the entrance to the haulage park. He signed them both in on the crime-scene log and wandered to the edge of the platform. There weren’t any boats tied to it. Maybe they didn’t use this place any more. The water was sparkling in the dark. Ink black and flecked with gold.
Harper found Detective Johnny Selinas walking the perimeter, kicking up dust as he shuffled his feet across the ground. Harper shook his hand. Selinas was a veteran. Twenty years in Manhattan South, in which time he’d expanded from 150 lbs to 300 lbs.
‘What you doing here, Harper? Don’t you get a nosebleed if you come this far south?’
‘I try to avoid it, but I think we’ve got something for you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We’re investigating the David Capske murder uptown. Gunshot to the head, Jewish victim. Thought I’d check out any similarities. Let you know what we have.’
Selinas led Harper over to the body. ‘I don’t know what this is, Harper. Her name is Marisa Cohen, if her purse is hers. She’s been in the river a day maybe. Can’t tell much about the COD. Maybe she drowned, maybe she was strangled and thrown in. Who knows, but she’s also got a gunshot wound right on the crown of the head.’
Harper looked down over the edge of the wooden platform into the water. Her body was hanging about a meter and a half below the platform. Both hands were tethered to the upright wooden stanchion. The wrists were bruised and the flesh torn, the wounds black against her white skin.
‘What else have you got?’ he asked.
‘Nothing yet. It’s early days.’
‘She married?’
‘Yeah. But separated. He’s with someone new, they were together.’
‘Wife found bound and drowned, and the husband off with his new mistress? Who knows?’
Harper got down flat and peered at her head wound. It was difficult to tell through the matted hair, but it was a neat little hole. Close range.
‘When do they think they can get her out?’
‘Two boats are on their way. Coroner’s also coming. Couple of hours.’
‘The Capske killer liked to look down on his victim,’ said Harper. ‘Shot him through the forehead from above.’
‘What else you got for me?’ Selinas said.
‘Look for dirt under her fingernails. If it’s boot polish then we might have a match.’
‘What’s your theory?’ Selinas wanted to know.
Harper looked at her hands. It looked like she had the same black dirt under her nails. ‘Someone likes to torture his victims. He likes to draw it out. He goes through some ritual with boot polish. We guess he makes them kneel and clean his boots. There’s writing too. Our guy had the word Loyalty written on a card that was left on his chest, and some unreadable scratches that looked like a homemade tattoo. Put it all together and you’ve got some sociopath with a lot of hatred in his blood. It might be linked to a series of neo-Nazi assaults. Check if she reported any hate crimes.’
‘Marisa Cohen fits most of your killer’s MO,’ said Selinas.
‘Look at her hands,’ said Harper. ‘She’s been tethered. I don’t think it’s to prevent the body floating away. I don’t think he cares about the body once it’s dead. As if it’s meaningless then, like a piece of garbage.’
‘Then why tie her there?’
‘She’s hanging there, isn’t she, with her head just out of the water. He didn’t want her to drown. In fact, he’s tried to prevent it. She’s tried to struggle. Why?’
‘To get away?’
‘Look at the rope marks. She’s tried to pull downwards. That would take her closer to the water.’
‘What for? To escape?’
‘No, I think it was because she wanted to die. She wanted to drown. Because he was keeping her alive for as long as he could.’
‘Sick bastard. Why?’ said Selinas.
‘Because that’s his thing. That’s what excites this maniac.’
The two men let the thought dwell in their minds for a moment.
‘When did you get to the body?’ asked Eddie.
‘We had a team here yesterday afternoon in the area but we didn’t find her until this afternoon.’
‘Why were you searching? Someone call it in?’
‘She called a friend just before she disappeared. The friend missed the call, but she listened to the voicemail and then called the cops. We got another call from some building by the park. They heard screaming.’
‘So what, patrol searched the area?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then he wanted us to find her. He’s getting even more fearless,’ said Harper. ‘He’s taking risks. He might have taken her out by the park and transported her here. Pretty risky.’
Harper let the thought take him. Marisa was different. She hadn’t been staged to look like something else. Not this time. Maybe the killer was feeling the urge and losing his control. Maybe he was feeling the pressure mounting.
‘I hope you find a slug in her body somewhere.’
‘No doubt,’ said Selinas.
‘Listen, get it to Ballistics, tell them to give me a call.’
‘Will do.’
Harper looked down at the brown-haired woman at their feet. ‘If the bullet and the boot polish match up, then I’m going to ask to take this over. Sorry to butt in like this.’
‘Reckon you might need to,’ said Selinas.
‘I’ll get Lafayette to square it with your squad.’
Harper moved in and sat on the platform by the body. His mood changed. He wanted to reach out, put his hand on her, pull her out of that horrible painful position. Even though she was dead, you still empathized with the body. It still hurt to see it cold and in a position of pain.
Why had the killer gone for Capske and now Marisa Cohen? Were they randomly chosen? What if Abby Goldenberg was linked somehow?
Harper wasn’t sure. Even if Marisa Cohen was also the victim of some hate crime, David Capske hadn’t been. Or, Harper suddenly thought, he hadn’t reported it. The link was Leo Lukanov or someone connected to Lukanov. He called Eddie across.
‘Eddie, see if you can talk to Lucy Steller and any friends of David Capske. Ask about hate crime. Did he ever get targeted?’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Eddie.
Harper looked at the hands again. The marks of someone thrashing about for freedom. The water must’ve been so damn cold. How long would a body last? An hour at most.
Harper stood up. He turned to Eddie. ‘He was here for an hour, sitting by the water’s edge as she froze to death. Tell Crime Scene. He might have left something.’
Harper looked down and shone a flashlight into the dark water. ‘Eddie, I don’t think she’s got a blouse on. Tell Selinas to keep a look out.’ Harper leaned out further and tried to peer through the water. The woman’s bra was dark against her white skin. He felt intrusive, like a voyeur, but he leaned in closely. ‘Come on, you bastard, what were you doing? Did you tattoo her too?’
Harper walked along the sea front, trying to locate the position the killer would have watched from. He knew that the killer liked the excitement of getting seen, so he presumed he’d sit somewhere he could see the floating body and the road. Harper moved right to the edge of the platform, out to the last raised post. He knelt and looked. It didn’t take long. This killer wasn’t hiding his mark. There it was, a small, neatly carved 88 on top of the post.
Chapter Forty-Three
Interrogation Room, North Manhattan Homicide
March 9, 8.41 p.m.
Harper sat with Blue Team watching Garcia interrogate Lukanov. ‘It’s not him,’ said Harper. ‘He might be a little cog in this wheel, but he was in here when Marisa Cohen was killed.’
‘How tight is the link?’
‘I followed the body to the morgue. Dr Pense looked it over. Three similarities. The boot polish, the same caliber bullet with a close head-shot, and she had something tattooed on her chest.’
‘What was it?’
‘88.’
‘Shit.’
‘And then something indecipherable.’
‘No idea what it says?’
‘We don’t know yet, but it’s our guy.’
‘So Lukanov is out of the picture.’
‘For now,’ said Harper. ‘Denise is working on this new information. She says that the writing on the corpse is important to him. He does it before they’re dead. It might dehumanize them.’
‘What about Esther? Did she have a number on her?’
‘No, there’s no record of it. I’ve got the autopsy photographs coming across, so we’ll have a look ourselves. Seems that they ignored the overkill once they had evidence linking this mugger to the crime.’
They looked through the two-way. Garcia slapped the table and stood up. A moment later, he appeared in the observation room.
‘He’s trained,’ said Garcia. ‘No other explanation. They’ve trained him. I’ve seen it before. No answer is the only answer. Or else you just tie yourself in knots. Martin Heming is their lead, right? He might have a military background. We should check it out, find out what we’re up against.’
Harper looked across. ‘You’ve got no subtlety, that’s the problem.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Garcia. ‘You going to do better?’
Harper went to the wall and picked up a big file of information. ‘The game has changed. If Lukanov didn’t do it, then we need information from him, not a confession. Information needs a different approach. I got a lot of background on this Leo Lukanov from Eddie and you guys. We got plenty of stuff on him. Let’s draw him out.’
Harper stood at the door of the inter
rogation room and stared at the sad figure before him. He sat opposite the big man as Eddie slipped in behind and leaned against the wall. ‘You remember me?’ said Harper.
There was no response. Harper nodded. ‘You fought well in the alley. Hit me hard. You got the build. Could be a fighter if you put your mind to it.’
Leo Lukanov continued to stare at the table. Harper pushed a packet of cigarettes across to him. ‘Take one. You’ve had a tough night.’ Harper paused. ‘They set us up when we’re useful, then abandon us, don’t they? This is what they do.’
Lukanov looked up. Harper caught his eye. ‘I’m talking about bosses. People in charge. People who think they know better. You know the kind of people I’m talking about, Leo. People with all the orders — but you know what? Where are they when the shit hits the fan? Where are they, Leo?’
Lukanov reached out and took a cigarette. Harper waited. He needed the man to engage. Harper withheld the matches and stared up at the wall. Finally, Leo looked up. ‘You got a light?’
‘Sure,’ said Harper. He leaned forward and struck a match. Lukanov dragged hard on the cigarette.
‘People like you are in the front line. You’re taking all the risks, while someone sitting back there is drinking a cold one. I tell you something, Leo, if I could have my way, I’d get rid of bosses and orders. The reason they give orders is because they’re too scared to do the job themselves. Look at this. Will you take a fucking look at it.’
Leo looked up, as Harper flicked through a sheaf of paper. ‘You know what this is? This is paperwork. They want us to go out and risk our necks and they want fucking paperwork.’
‘It’s bullshit,’ said Leo.
‘It is bullshit. But if I don’t do it, I get canned. You don’t follow orders, what do they do? Smash your car? Beatings?’