The Killing Collective

by Gary Starta

  “Already working on it. I just have to convince my supervisor to spring for the budget and authorize the procedure. Underneath the metallic sequins, the material consists mostly of leather.”

  “So, it’s a possibility.”

  “Yes. I’ll give it one chance in three of producing a usable print. I’ll need to find good ridge detail if I’m going to find anything at all.”

  “Why doesn’t your boss want to authorize the test and the budget?”

  Seacrest clenched her jaw. “Because the gloves are irreplaceable artifacts, because I can’t guarantee a usable result, and because he has no balls.”

  Deeprose had to turn away so Seacrest wouldn’t see her smiling.

  “I’ll get the approval, no worries, Agent. I usually get what I want when it’s that important. The gloves escaped blood damage. The killer tossed them off as he ran from the scene. They were found halfway down the hall from the body. I was about to exclude them from further examination, so if we go for this procedure, it will mean cutting them up into a few pieces.”

  “What process would y’all use, exactly?”

  “Essentially, I’d be using the Ninhydrin-Heptane Carrier process. We dip the gloves in a solution first and then cut them up to observe them both inside and out. Hopefully, in a few hours, ridge detail might be revealed, but I’m doubtful of a hit that would prove the same perpetrator carried out both crimes.”

  “That’s just it. Ah don’t believe there is only one killer.”

  “Unfortunately, we won’t know the answer to that question until we finish examining the evidence from both scenes.”

  “Have you found any prints in the Florio home that aren’t his own?”

  “We have at least one other print found in the victim’s bathroom. But we haven’t been able to identify it, yet. If it belongs to the killer, he or she has no previous record. The cleanup job was almost professionally done, so the murderer was clever, like she’d done it before. Then again, we found a trace of an accelerant and wine on the body. Not so clever. It’s strange, you know? It’s as if it was done by an amateur who was given instructions for most of the things she did and none for others. All we can do now is what we do best - stick to procedure and hope for a miracle.”

  Seacrest chugged her coffee and looked behind her to make sure Deeprose was still jogging along. “I have to wonder, though, how the victim sat still for his own execution. He wasn’t tied up or anything, so my question is, was he given something to make him feel pleasure instead of pain or something to make him feel nothing at all, perhaps? There’s almost nothing left of him to autopsy, so that piece of the puzzle may be lost forever.”

  Deeprose stopped walking and turned to face Seacrest head-on.

  “This killin’ tells us much more than the museum murders, which were half-assed compared to it. This one was definitely premeditated. My money’s on Deborah Decker for the Jersey case. If she really was there, she can’t have slipped in and out that easily. Someone must have seen her. Maybe Ah oughta re-interview the neighbors. There’s two different killers. One is pretty dumb, has big feet, and either didn’t plan this at all or was set up. The other one’s smart, obedient, and hates men. Ah mean, really hates ‘em.”

  “It may seem that way, Agent, but psychological profiling doesn’t always fit the perpetrator in question, and investigations have a way of becoming much muddier before they become clear. Keep an open mind. Listen more than you talk. You can watch Carter’s back better by keeping your eyes and ears open.”

  Deeprose finally got to the crux of what was bothering her. “Ah’m not rootin’ for the killers to be two different people, Agent, but Ah think they are based on the scenes. The thing is, for whatever reason, the Bureau seems to wanna hang this all on one fella.”

  Seacrest’s face flushed. “I see. So that’s why you’re pushing so hard for the glove test.”

  “Of course, the killer coulda taken off those fancy sneakers before enterin’ the home, but Ah think a set of fingerprints from the gloves will help us get past the one-killer theory. Well, thanks for your time.”

  “Agent Deeprose, Carter’s the best. You’ll learn a lot from him.” Seacrest turned and walked down the hall in her usual fury of motion. “Oh, yeah, thanks for the coffee.”

  ***

  Michael drove Alison to his apartment on the Upper West Side. It was slightly larger than a walk-in closet, and it was a pigsty.

  “Sit down.” He cleared the books off his leather couch with a sweep of his arm.

  Alison eyed the ripped leather and wondered how it got that way. She knew everyone wished someone dead once in a while, but she was no killer. Michael, on the other hand, was a different story. The moment had worn off. She didn’t feel safe here.

  Michael sat in a chair facing her. “Let’s get down to business.”

  She glanced at the books on the floor to see if one of the hard covers might be heavy enough to knock him out. Michal knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “I didn’t bring you here to kill you. Like I said before, we have a future together. Call it a limited engagement.” His smile was cold.

  Alison was getting a little dizzy and nauseous. “I don’t feel so good, Michael. I feel like I need something for it, but I don’t know what.

  “Calm down; you’re just ‘Jonesing’. It hits you bigtime the next day.”

  “Jonesing?”

  “Yeah, stupid, you never heard of it? Alison, you took the drug one time and you’re already addicted. You need more of it, and so do I. That’s why we’re going to team up. We’re going to steal their inventory, keep some, and sell the rest. They can’t do anything about it, Alison, because they can’t go to the cops. It’s a piece of cake.”

  I do miss the voices and that wonderful sense of being filled up with acceptance and approval. It was like having my own cheerleading team inside my head. I want that feeling again. But just the feeling. I don’t need to take drugs and kill people to get that feeling, but he does.

  “Once you’re done helping me, I’ll let you go. You have no choice, Alison. I saw what you did, and I have the license number of the car that left the scene.”

  “What about you? If you got dosed, you did a kill, too.”

  “You don’t know that, Alison, and you have no proof, anyway. Go ahead. Call my bluff. It’s only a couple of hundred years in prison for you if you guess wrong.” He shrugged. “The point is, they knew or guessed we’d get addicted to it. I can’t figure out why they’d take that chance unless they wanted to use us again, which makes no sense, or they hoped we might overdose. But we didn’t and now we need more, so we have to get it without them knowing who took it and without getting caught. If we’re caught, we’re dead.”

  “You’re not a man; you’re something that crawls on the ground, Michael. You and I are not alike. I will turn your ass in and throw myself on the mercy of the court if I have to. I was drugged and coerced. I won’t be held responsible - at least I hope not - but whatever happens, I’d rather take my chances with the cops than team up with you.”

  “I saw you at the meeting, Alison. Don’t lie to me; you loved the message. Admit it, you agree that the only way to live better right now is to take what you want from the people who have it all. It’s not murder. It’s a war.”

  “O.K., sure, I knew the Silver Man was talking about killing to defend what was ours and taking what we should have had all along if it would improve the lives of the community. I knew it, but I thought he was speaking in hyperbole. I thought the message was important, but not the method.

  “I know nothing’s gonna change, at least not for me in my lifetime. I also know that crime pays. Yeah, that’s right, it pays, but that doesn’t mean it’s right to deal drugs, either. Look, Michael, I see it on the news every damn day; a man in Newark, New Jersey is arrested for killing four of his neighbors. When asked why he shot them, he says he’d known them for 20 years and didn’t know what came over him. Then he starts screaming and cryi
ng about just having wanted something for himself. Something of his own. All he wanted was a stupid T.V. or a car or a decent bed to sleep in, so one day he got up and killed his best friends to get them.

  “But Michael, I don’t have to kill to get what I want. I went to the meeting to meet people like myself. I was interested in the message too, until I realized what I’d done the next night. The Silver Man did far more than talk about his viewpoint. He forced it on me, and now I’m a murderess. When this is done and you have your bag of drugs, I walk away clean. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.”

  He stalked out of the room and left her there. She heard his bedroom door slam. Alison curled up on the ruined couch without a blanket or a pillow and cried herself to sleep.

  ***

  The two later sat at a make-shift kitchen table eating Captain Crunch cereal with milk that smelled highly questionable but was better than nothing. “I found someone else who was dosed at the party and tracked her to a bar downtown. She never did her kill.”

  “So? Good for her.”

  “Alison, don’t be dense. You think these are just a bunch of crazies dosing people at their meetings for kicks? They sent us out to murder people, you dope! They must be watching us. They must know who did their murder and who didn’t. We aren’t safe as long as they know who we are and where we live, and they aren’t safe until they’re sure we can’t connect them to the meetings, the drug, and the kills. That means we’re on their hit list. We’re not useful anymore.”

  “No kidding! Did you figure that out all by yourself? So why do you care about this girl, then? How does she figure into this?”

  “We have to find her. We’ll go to that bar again and see if she turns up or if the bartender knows where we can find her. She still has her assignment and the drug takes 48 hours to wear off. They’ll still be expecting her to do her kill. That’s our chance, Alison.”

  “Huh?”

  Michael looked at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “Look, if we’re lucky, she’ll still remember who she’s supposed to do and where to find the victim. By tomorrow, she’ll be climbing the walls for another dose. If she bought into the idea of killing for what she wants in life, it won’t be hard to convince Eliza - that’s her name - to help us out of this mess and get more of the killing drug at the same time.”

  “Michael, I’m not climbing the walls. You don’t seem to be in such bad shape today, either. It’s possible that not everyone who takes it gets addicted to it. Why should she help us, anyway? She hasn’t done anything except resist a drug and a subliminal order.”

  “If she remembers what happened then she’ll know that her own life is worthless, now. The only way to keep herself safe is to help us expose them. We’re going to get her to tell us who she was supposed to eliminate so we can convince that person to help us if we help protect him. After all, that person is a walking bullseye. Eliza is the other half of our proof. She’s the only one we know of who was dosed but hasn’t killed. That makes hers the only testimony anyone will listen to. The Silver Man gets busted, we’re free and clear, and I have their entire stash as compensation. Plus, we get the undying gratitude of an entire nation.”

  “The drug will be out of Eliza’s system in 24 hours! She’ll have no proof that she was dosed, stupid! If you take their stash, there’s no proof they ever had it in the first place, either. Who’s going to believe this girl?”

  “Thought of that, already. We’ll leave the Silver Man with enough of the drug to cover the next meeting. Once we have our samples, the cops’ll listen to us and they’ll be too hot to touch us. Her intended victim will back her up once she realizes who wants her dead. I’ll bet she can tell us a lot more than we already know. Anyway, she already knows too much, and she’ll understand that. We have to stick together and see this through. There’s no other way.”

  Alison broke down and cried. She couldn’t trust him. She hated herself for what she’d done over the past few days, but she couldn’t bring that poor man back to life. The only thing to do was to expose this killing Collective. She couldn’t do it alone. Like it or not, they had to work together. She knew full well that all he wanted was help stealing the drug, but to get it and keep it, he’d help her get justice. It could work.

  When she’d cried herself out, Alison looked Michael in the eyes. “I hate to admit it, but the plan could work. You found the flaw in his operation, so I guess I should say thank you. Even if Eliza and this other victim doesn’t help us, just knowing who Eliza is, keeping her from doing her kill, and getting those samples should be enough to save ourselves.”

  “You see? We’re already a team.”

  Alison got up and went into the bathroom to wash up.

  ***

  Michael watched her walk away.

  God, that was easy. If the other two are as gullible as she is, I’m home free. Yes, Alison, it is a good plan. It’s a great plan. Too bad it’s not the one we’re going to use. After I get the bag of drugs that sicko owes me for the money I left in that hole, all I have to do is make an anonymous call to the Silver Man’s people and tell them Alison, Eliza and this third person stole their bag of drugs. The three of them will disappear, the drug will never be found, and I’m home free.

  Alison went into the living room to put on the television when she got back. “There may be more news on our kills, and if there’s been another murder, we need to know about it.”

  ***

  Carter called Deeprose’s cell phone which went straight to voicemail. He thought she was going to meet him at the office but found her computer in sleep mode when he got there. She must have begun her day without him.

  Oh boy, that’s not good. I hope she’s not going it alone because she thinks I’ve been steering her down the garden path. Even I don’t believe these murders were done by thrill killers. Please tell me she’s not the type to take unnecessary risks. I so don’t want to mentor another Seacrest…

  Chapter Eleven

  Deeprose took a deep breath before walking into the museum. The temporary curator, Mr. Moreland, had been there less than a week when he was replaced. She was here today to meet the new permanent curator, James Alquist.

  She flashed her badge and extended a hand to him. “Good Afternoon, Mr. Alquist. Ah’m Special Agent Deeprose. Thank you for your time this mornin’. Do you know, sir, why Mr. Moreland chose not to stay on? Ah’ mean, temporary positions are usually a formality, aren’t they?”

  “Mr. Moreland contacted me a few days ago. It seems he was unable to stay on permanently. He didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. All I know is that this opportunity landed right in my lap. He said he was calling because he’d met me about a year ago at one of his lectures on Impressionism. Apparently, we spoke afterwards, but I didn’t recall it. My daughter had been ill with scarlet fever at the time, so I only had a vague recollection of it, but by the time we hung up, I remembered he’d said he’d been working with scientists over the years who believed that curing disease was far less effective than eliminating it from the human genome altogether. Long story short, Mr. Moreland remembered me, and that’s how I’m here today.”

  A temporary museum curator who also worked with scientists messin’ around with D.N.A.? Interestin’.

  “Mr. Moreland sounds like a fascinatin’ man. Ah didn’t have a chance to talk with him last week. Do you know where Ah might find him?”

  “I believe he said he was doing a series of lectures in several different countries; sort of a world tour.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Alquist. We’ll follow up on that later. If you don’t mind my askin’, have y’all decided to let us test the gloves the killer used for finger prints?”

  “Yes, I have. I’ve already spoken to the board of directors. You now have permission to use any materials you deem necessary to close your investigation. The gloves are priceless, but we’d rather sacrifice them than keep them if it means catching a killer and saving this museum from financial ruin.”

  “Ah tr
uly appreciate that, Mr. Alquist.” Deeprose noticed something unusual on Alquist’s desk. As she spoke, she removed her Smartphone from her jacket pocket. “Ah see y’all have a book on Impressionist art on your desk. Does it belong to Mr. Moreland?”

  “It did, but he left it here for me. In fact, he donated a painting to us which I’m sending over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Impressionist art doesn’t fit in with our medieval theme. I just wanted to brush up on my knowledge of it before contacting the Met.”

  “Ah’d like to take a look at the paintin’ if possible, Mr. Alquist.”

  “Certainly. Let’s take a walk and view it together.”

  “Ballerinas! How beautiful they are!” She came as close as she dared to the precious painting to study the dancers at their rehearsal.

  “It’s a Degas.” Clayton framed the painting with his hands. “You can feel the drama.”

  “They look worried.”

  “Yes, worried about their performance, I imagine, as well as the choreographer. That’s what makes a Degas so special. His subjects were almost always ballerinas. I think he was fascinated by performance art. These ballerinas had one chance to get it right every evening, and when they could no longer perform, they either faded into obscurity as a fat man’s mistress or starved to death. It was a hard life.”

  “Ah’m sure. Would it be all right if Ah took a photo of it?”

  “Go right ahead, but please don’t use your flash.”

  Why would Moreland donate a painting done by a master of 19th century Impressionist art to a museum dedicated to medieval art? Ah don’t know…the fear in those faces is unmistakable, even to someone who knows nothin’ about art. They all seem so afraid. What are they tryin’ to tell me?

  “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Alquist. It was a pleasure meetin’ you.”

  She read a text message from Carter as she left the building. He was worried about her. She texted back, “Ah went to the museum to meet the new curator. Ah think Ah’m on to somethin’. We’ll talk later.”

  ***

  Michael and Alison got off the train at 59th Street and Columbus Circle and walked along for a few blocks until he recognized the bar where Eliza sat drinking the night before.