Dead Connection

by Alafair Burke

  Flann flipped his phone shut. “Grab your coat. We’ve got another body.”

  THEY PULLED IN FRONT of the high-rise Yorkville apartment building twenty minutes later. As they made their way to the entrance, Ellie spotted a NY1 van screech to a halt at the curb. She nudged Flann when a man holding a camera climbed from the back.

  “How can they know already?”

  “A big building like this? Someone tells someone else, and before you know it, they call their friend at the news station. Word spreads. We’ll have a mob up here before long. Quiet time is over. This is about to hit the big leagues.”

  Ellie thought she detected a note of excitement in his voice. They waited to speak with the doorman, who was busy helping a well-dressed tenant push a box onto the elevator on the opposite side of the lobby. They could have easily walked right in without notice, but waited anyway.

  Ellie used the time to check out three small, black-and-white screens that rested beneath the check-in desk. On the middle screen, she recognized the well-dressed tenant and his package. When the doorman returned, Ellie asked if the security cameras were attached to a recorder, or only used for monitoring.

  “We record,” he said. “I don’t know how long but—”

  Ellie knew that most apartment buildings, if they sprung at all for recording, only retained a limited duration of footage — twenty-four hours max. “We need whatever you’ve got from the elevator that goes to the thirty-second floor. As soon as you can do it.”

  He assured them he’d grab the tape ASAP, then promptly left the lobby unattended and unsecured.

  THE BODY in apartment 32M belonged to Megan Quinn. An hour after she should have been at work, writing copy for Travel & Leisure magazine, her housekeeper found her face up on the living room floor, a disheveled bouquet of flowers strewn beside her. Placed neatly on her torso was the piece of paper that had led to the phone call Flann had received about her murder.

  It was a printout of an e-mail, sent through FirstDate, to the account of Megan May, from the account of GregUK. You sound terrific. Enough e-mails. I really want to meet you. If you won’t tell me when and where, I might just have to show up at your doorstep one day with a bouquet of roses. It was signed Greg. He left his phone number.

  Antoine Williams, the homicide detective from Manhattan North who originally caught the call-out, had heard rumors that Flann was working a case full time that was somehow related to Internet dating. Flann had long ago learned to stop asking how his name and his cases came to be discussed among other detectives. He was grateful Antoine made the connection so quickly.

  “I suppose we should call Greg. Nail down his story,” Ellie said. Flann nodded, but they both suspected what they’d find. GregUK would be a decent guy who had nothing to do with any of this, other than unwittingly providing a killer access to a woman he had really hoped to meet.

  Flann beelined to a good-looking black man with a short Afro and a groomed goatee, who stood over Megan Quinn’s body. “Antoine Williams, this is Ellie Hatcher. Hatcher, Williams. What have we got?”

  Megan wore a gray Lycra tank top and black yoga pants. Tiny red splotches marked her eyes, cheeks, and neck. Bleeding beneath the skin had led to petechial hemorrhaging.

  “We’re still waiting on the M.E., but looks like asphyxiation. No bruising or ligature marks on her neck though, so I think we’re talking smothering. We pulled a pillow off the couch with her lipstick and mascara on it. Creepy shit. Looked like a death mask. No doubt we’ll find saliva on it with her DNA.”

  “What kind of pillow?” Ellie asked.

  “Like the matching one over there.” He pointed to a moss green throw cushion on the upholstered tapestry couch.

  Ellie took a closer look at the body. “No scratches. No cuts. No bruises. Only the petechiae. He just covered her face with a pillow and smothered her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Williams said, not sounding sorry at all. “I thought that’s what I just said.”

  “No, I know that’s what you said. It just strikes me as odd. This is victim number four, but he’s changing his M.O. with each murder. The first woman, Tatiana—”

  Williams interrupted, holding his hands up in a capital T. “Mac, I can see you found yourself a suitable partner. If this is about to be a whole big picture kind of conversation, I may as well get on out of your all’s way. All I been doing so far is checking on the crime scene. We good here?”

  Flann assured him they were and thanked Williams once again for connecting them so quickly to the case.

  Ellie didn’t bother with good-byes. “So Tatiana. She’s an outlier from the other three simply because of the demographics. Shot in the parking lot of Vibrations with a.380 semiautomatic. Two bullets to the back of the head. Caroline Hunter’s a higher-class victim, but same method of killing. Two shots, back of the head, same gun.”

  “So far, so good,” Flann said.

  “Right. But exactly one year after Caroline, we’ve got Amy Davis. You could say it’s a similar victim profile to Hunter, plus you’ve got the FirstDate connection, but look at the method of killing. No gun. Instead, we had those horrible black bruises all across her neck and face. He strangled her with his bare hands. He crushed her larynx. He literally squeezed the life out of her.”

  “So maybe he ditched the gun as a precaution, then decided to try something new when he got the urge to kill.”

  Ellie shook off the suggestion. “Uh-uh. This guy plans. He chooses his victim. He stalks. We know he stalks. He gets into their e-mail accounts. And Taylor Gottman says he saw a man watching Amy. He’s not an impulse killer. If shooting is what he likes to do, then he’d get another gun. If we stopped with Amy Davis, I would have said he was seeking a more personal connection with death as he escalated. At first it was enough to pull a trigger and walk away quick, knowing he was powerful, knowing he was the one who ended a life. But then with Davis, he gets closer. He draws it out. It’s more physical. More intimate. He wants to savor the moment and literally feel it pass through his body.”

  “But now we’ve got poor Megan here.”

  “Exactly. You see my point. He’s past the doorman. He’s in the apartment. He has access. Why so impersonal? Why hide her face beneath a pillow? Why not watch her choke — see her pain? It’s like he’s regressing. He’s taking a step backward, getting more distance after Amy’s murder.”

  “Maybe. But this is the first time he’s gone inside a victim’s home, into a big apartment complex. Maybe he was worried about the noise. The pillow covers her mouth. It keeps her from yelling.”

  Ellie squinted, trying to picture it, then shook her head. “He’s too meticulous. He watches, he stalks. If it was important for him to touch her, to feel her in his hands, to look into her eyes while she died — he would have figured out a way. But for some reason, with Megan, it didn’t matter.”

  Flann didn’t seem to share her concern. “The kill’s quicker this time too. We had exactly a year between Hunter and Davis. Now, not even a week. Maybe he got such a high from Davis, when he did get a hands-on feel for it, that he couldn’t wait this time. He rushed it, realized he had a noise problem, then had to use the pillow.”

  “I just don’t see it. He’s a planner. He was careful enough to remember to leave an e-mail behind for us to find. You and I both know we won’t find anything on the building’s security tape. He wouldn’t be so cautious and then deprive himself of the pleasure he wants.”

  “So what’s your theory?” Flann asked.

  “Well, he could be evolving. Experimenting. Trying to find a comfort level between quick and dirty assassination, and something as personal as Davis.”

  “That also might explain the timing. He feels guilty, somehow tainted, by the violence of the Davis killing. So now he’s trying again?”

  “There could be another explanation, Flann. Maybe he got more personal with Davis because something about her made it personal.”

  “We already checked out the people who kn
ew her. She was squeaky clean.”

  “I didn’t say he knew her. Maybe she just reminded him of someone. But some kind of connection could have set off the rage we saw in her murder, something he doesn’t generally need in order to feel satisfied. It could even be someone who knew her in the past — someone you haven’t checked out yet.”

  “And he appears all these years later in New York, and takes out a few extra people while he’s at it?”

  “We should at least look into it. The D.C. Sniper mastermind was out to kill his ex-wife, remember? All those poor victims were just camouflage.”

  “Jesus Christ. This guy stepped up the pace with no notice, and we’ve got nothing. We’ve got mystery men from strip bars, ghosts from the past. No. This stops now. We’re going back to where we should have been all along.”

  “Mark Stern.”

  “Does the pope work Sundays? Damn straight, Mark Stern.”

  ACCORDING TO HIS assistant, Stern was out of the office. When Flann pressed, she said he was out for a meeting with the company’s lawyers. When Flann pressed still harder, mentioning the possibility of the company name being plastered across the front page of tomorrow’s Daily Post, she gave him Stern’s cell phone number and the name of the law firm handling FirstDate’s public offering. At the mention of the Daily Post, Ellie tried not to think about Peter Morse.

  Despite more calls, Stern was nowhere to be found. After some legal babble about attorney-client privilege, the law firm revealed that Stern departed twenty minutes earlier. Urgent messages left on his cell phone went unreturned.

  Flann finally gave up and clamped his phone shut. “Asshole. Megan Quinn might be alive right now if that guy had a heart half the size of his wallet. And the rest of the city’s about to find that out.”

  BY THE TIME they left the building, three other news vans had joined NY1’s, and patrol officers had restricted the entire block from vehicle access. Several reporters lined the wooden barricades, notebooks or microphones in hand depending on the medium. Ellie scanned the line briefly and was relieved not to see Peter.

  As soon as the reporters caught sight of McIlroy and Ellie, the questions began, each louder and more inflammatory than the previous. Can you confirm there was a homicide? Is this related to last weekend’s Lower East Side murder? Is it another single woman? Did the victim know Amy Davis? McIlroy waited for the most daunting question: Detectives, is New York City looking at another serial killer?

  Flann looked directly into a camera bearing a NY1 logo. “As you know, there’s little I can provide in the way of details at this early stage. There are leads to follow, witnesses to interview, and family members to notify. I will tell you this: We will find the person responsible, and we will not tolerate anyone who gives criminals safe harbor. Members of the media, you are our partners in this. Help spread the word that we need the good people of New York to help us with our investigation. Anyone with information should call the New York City Police Department. They can ask either for me, Flann McIlroy, or this is my partner, Ellie Hatcher. H-A-T-C-H-E-R. That’s all I can say right now. A formal statement will be made later.”

  ELLIE STARTED a mental count to ten once they were inside the Crown Vic. She unleashed at five. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about, or are you just waiting to see if I’m smart enough to figure it out?”

  He threw her a perplexed sideways glance. “Don’t sweat it. Cops make generic statements like that all the time. I wanted to send a quiet message to Stern with that safe harbor line. We’ve established a relationship with the media early, and we’ll throw him to the wolves if we have to. He will give us our information, or I’ll turn him into this city’s next great corporate villain. Leona Helmsley will look like Mother Teresa. But don’t worry — it was subtle enough that we won’t get any heat.”

  “Flann, I’m not talking about departmental policy.” All media inquiries were supposed to go through the NYPD’s Public Information Office. “The reporters? The news vans? The cameras and the microphones and the spotlights? I asked you when we pulled up how they could have heard about the murder already. But then they had all those questions — such knowing questions. I don’t think someone from the building could have tipped them off about a connection to Amy Davis.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “A serial killer, Flann? You expect me to think they came up with that on their own?”

  “So I might have made a call or two before we came up here.”

  “And once again, you didn’t think to tell me about it,” she said.

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you in the crapper with me. Stern’ll be pissed. The department might—”

  “Knock it off. I’m not as naive as you’ve been playing me. And I’m pretty sure I care a lot less about department rules than you do.”

  “I know what I’m doing. You need to trust me,” Flann said.

  “Hey pot, have you met my buddy, kettle? When are you going to get around to the rest of it?”

  “Really, Ellie. We have other priorities right now.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m in the car with you, letting you drive, and trying to get this over with as quickly as possible. So just go ahead and admit that this is what you had in mind all along. This is why you put me on the case. Ask for me or Ellie Hatcher? You just had to get my name in there.”

  She had been stupid enough to believe that she had earned an early career as a big-time homicide detective. Now it turned out that she was just bait after all. She was here not because of any talent she had as a detective, but because the media would salivate at the idea of the little girl obsessed with the College Hill Strangler growing up to hunt a serial murderer of her own. She was here to get Flann McIlroy just a little more press.

  Flann merged onto FDR Drive, the siren howling above, and then finally spoke.

  “When I came up with this idea about FirstDate, it got me thinking about the mind of a serial killer. For some reason, I started making connections to the College Hill Strangler case, and then I started thinking more about your story. I told you the truth when I said I was touched by it.”

  “So touched you decided to use me as bait — just not in the way I thought.”

  “I figured that if this guy was into the Internet, it wouldn’t take long for him to pull up the stories about you and your dad’s history. Maybe he’d get inspired by all those letters Summer wrote, the way he kept police after him for all those years. It was the contact from the killer that finally worked in Wichita. It’s also how they caught the D.C. Sniper — a line of communication between us and him.”

  “I’m not asking you to defend the plan, because here’s what’s really ironic. I would’ve done it if you’d asked, Flann. If you had a valid reason for wanting to titillate the press, I would’ve said, Go for it. Do what you need to do. But I had a right to know I was being used this way.”

  “I couldn’t have known that then.”

  “You should’ve known it by now. That’s your problem. Maybe it’s why the other guys have nicknames for you, why you’re an outsider. You don’t trust other cops. You think you’re better than the rest of us.”

  “I’m not better,” he said.

  “I know. You’re not.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Obviously you’re a good cop. You’ve got better instincts than anyone I’ve ever seen. But you can’t be an independent contractor. You can’t act like you’re all by yourself on a little island. Drawing the killer out to communicate with you — that’s a great idea. But you needed someone else to help you.”

  “That’s right. I needed you.”

  “And if you need other people, you’ve also got to trust them. You can’t just use them for your own purposes. This job we have — it only works if it means something to you other than a job. It’s got to be your life. Your second family.”

  “Why do I have a feeling you’ve heard those words in a more positive light than I have?”

>   Ellie didn’t respond.

  “Well, when I’ve heard talk like that at the NYPD, it always comes from some cop who’s the poster child for not trusting other cops too much. You’ve asked me about the problems between me and Ed Becker? Let’s just say that back in the day he was one of the poster children.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was a long time ago. What was I going to say? Fifteen years ago when I was a rookie, I saw him take some protection money from a video arcade in Brooklyn? Maybe people change. If we’re talking about trust, maybe I decided to trust your instincts on that one instead of mine.”

  “More like trust, but verify,” Ellie said.

  “I guess so. I’m sorry I didn’t fill you in on the background check. Or on the news leak. It took me a few days to realize I finally found a partner with a little faith in me — someone to share my little island with.”

  Ellie saw no use in pursuing the issue any further. She’d been brought to Flann to serve one purpose, and now that purpose had been served. After this case, she’d go back to her precinct and remain, as she always said, quite happy with her everyday garden variety felonies. But until that happened, only one thing mattered: Finding the asshole who killed Megan Quinn on her watch.

  “This better fucking work.”

  25

  MEGAN QUINN’S MURDER WAS THE LEAD STORY ON EVERY LOCAL network. Ellie flipped from channel to channel on a small TV set in the precinct lunchroom, finally settling on Fox 5 News. The white-haired male anchor introduced the story.

  “We lead tonight with the murder last night of a young woman, killed inside the safety of her apartment, located in a usually quiet section of the Upper East Side. Police say it’s too early to speculate, but in light of another killing last weekend on the Lower East Side, some New Yorkers are already asking, Is the city looking at the activity of another serial killer? We go to Anne Vasquez for more.”