“That still doesn’t solve the problem of where he’s hiding the girls.”
“You should start with the campus,” Krieger said.
Butts ran a hand through his meager blond hair, making it stand up in pointed spears, like the crown on the Statue of Liberty. “Where the hell do you hide a kidnap victim on a college campus?”
“Especially one as populated as Columbia University,” Krieger added.
“The tunnels,” Barry said, without taking his eyes off the computer screen.
“I thought you said he was going to be quiet!” Butts bellowed. “For Christ’s sake, Chen—”
“Wait a second,” said Lee. “What did he just say?”
“What did you say, Barry?” asked Jimmy.
Barry stopped typing. “The tunnels,” he said without looking up. “Columbia University has a series of subterranean tunnels connecting many of the buildings on campus. The oldest of the tunnels was originally built when the site was home to a mental institution in the nineteenth century.” His tone was flat, as though he was reciting memorized knowledge.
Butts stared at him. “What the—”
“Barry has a photographic memory,” Jimmy explained. “He must have read that somewhere.”
“What else can you tell us, Barry?” Krieger asked, her eyes gleaming.
“There are rumors of a tunnel between the Butler and Low Libraries,” Barry continued, “but no such tunnel has ever been found.”
“Barry,” Lee said. “Is there an entrance to the tunnels in the math building?”
“There is an entrance on the basement level of the Mathematics Building, which was taken over by radical students during the riots of 1968.”
Butts looked at Barry, then back at Jimmy.
“I’ll have a SWAT team on standby. Go!” he said. “And take him with you!”
They didn’t stick around long enough for him to change his mind.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Jimmy Chen’s Crown Victoria was parked in front of the precinct. The three of them piled into the car, Barry in the backseat, Lee in the front. Jimmy threw the big Ford into Reverse, backed it out into the street, and peeled off down Twenty-first Street, heading west. He rolled down the driver’s side window, reached out and stuck a flashing light onto the roof of the car. In the backseat, Barry made a little moaning sound.
“He doesn’t like the flashing light,” Jimmy said to Lee. “He can’t handle a lot of sensory input. Cover your eyes,” he called back to Barry.
Lee glanced back at Barry, who was rocking and moaning, his hands over his eyes. The white bandage on his left arm had begun to unravel.
“Here, let me fix that,” Lee said, reaching back, but Barry shrank from his touch and moaned louder.
“He doesn’t like to be touched,” Jimmy said, turning right on Third Avenue. “We had quite a time at getting that arm stitched up. We ended up using a heart monitor as a distraction. He loved watching the pulse monitor jump up and down. He likes anything rhythmic and repetitive—don’t you, Barry?”
“I like rhythm and repetition,” Barry said, continuing to rock. “I like mathematical constants.”
“Hey, Barry, why don’t you show Lee how far you can recite the decimals of pi?” Jimmy said, weaving in and out of traffic. Lee closed his eyes as Jimmy nearly sideswiped a delivery guy on a bike.
“Yeah, Barry,” Lee said. “I’d like to hear that.”
Barry stopped rocking. “Pi is three point one, four, one, five, nine, two, six—”
Jimmy swerved around an H & H Bagels truck, causing Barry to lose his balance and tip over on the seat. He sat up straight again and continued.
“Five, three, five, eight, nine—”
“Shit!” Jimmy muttered as a young girl with a ratty white terrier on a leash took a step into the intersection. He hit the horn hard, and the girl jumped back. “Watch where you’re going—you wanna get killed?”
“Why not use the siren?” Lee asked, even though Jimmy’s driving was beginning to make him nauseated, his head throbbing in sync with the flashing light.
“Barry couldn’t take that,” Jimmy said. “He’d start howling. I mean howling—like a wolf, you know.”
“Supersonic wolves,” Barry said. “Seven, nine, three, two, three. Eight, four, six, two, six . . .”
“That’s amazing, Barry,” Lee said. “You really are a genius.”
“I’m a genius,” Barry echoed. “Four, three, three, eight, two . . .”
Jimmy took Madison Avenue north from Madison Square Park, past the shops and restaurants of Murray Hill. He jerked to a stop in front of a bookstore north of Thirty-second Street.
“Be right back!” he called out as he dashed inside. He came out a few moments later with a thick book of math puzzles, tossing it onto the seat next to him. “For later,” he told Lee as he buckled himself in and started the engine. He continued up Madison, heading toward Central Park when he reached the fifties. Barry kept up his recitation the entire way. Lee lost track of how many numbers he had gone through but figured it must be well over a hundred by the time Jimmy headed north on Park Drive. The traffic in the park was light, and they zoomed past joggers with strollers, inline skaters and speed racers on bikes, emerging at the northern exit on 110th Street.
The Mathematics Building was on the far western side of the campus bordered by Broadway. Jimmy slid into a metered parking place half a block away, slammed the gearshift into Park and turned around to face his brother.
“Barry, give me your backpack, okay?”
Barry clutched the pack to his chest. “Six, two, six, eight, three . . .”
“I need it for a very important job,” Jimmy pleaded. “Please?”
Barry shook his head. “Eight, eight, two, three, five . . .”
“Enough with the numbers!” Jimmy yelled. “Give me the damn backpack!”
Barry clutched it harder. “Three, seven, eight, seven, five . . .”
“You don’t need it,” said Lee. “Just leave on your tie and scuff yourself up a little. You can pass as a professor.”
“Yeah, or a math geek like him,” Jimmy replied, mussing up his smooth black hair.
“Math geek like me,” Barry said. “Nine, three, seven, five, one . . .”
“Is he going to be okay here?” Lee said.
“He has his computer. I’ll lock the car.”
“But he can still get out, right?”
“This car has a setting that I can use to lock him in. Barry, I’m going to lock the car, okay?” Jimmy said. “If there’s an emergency, just use the police band radio.”
“Nine, five, seven, seven, eight . . .” said Barry.
Jimmy checked in with Detective Butts on the car radio.
“I’ve got uniforms guarding every entrance,” Butts told them. “And I’m alerting campus security. We’ve got a SWAT team on standby.”
“If we need more backup, we’ll call for it,” said Jimmy.
“Don’t be a goddamn hero,” Butts growled, his voice scratchy from electronic interference on the line.
“Oh, come on—you know me better than that,” Jimmy said. “Over and out.” He turned to Lee. “Let’s go. Barry, if you get to the end of your sequence, you can start it over, okay?” He held up the math puzzle book. “And I got this for you. That should keep you busy for a while.”
Barry snatched the book and opened it. “Keep me busy for a while. One, eight, five, seven, seven . . .”
“How does he keep track of where he is?” Lee asked.
“I dunno,” said Jimmy as they climbed out of the car, locking the doors behind them. They loped toward the main entrance to the campus on 116th Street, heading through the majestic wrought-iron gate and up the steps to the campus. Mathematics Hall was a four-story brick and fieldstone building just to the north of the entrance. The campus looked deserted—most of the students and faculty had already left for the holiday break. The lights on the tall fir in front of Low Library glowed
coldly in the bitter winter wind.
As they walked up the steps to the Mathematics Building, Lee’s cell phone rang. It was Gemma. He switched the phone onto vibrate and shoved it back into his pocket. They entered the Mathematics Building and headed down the spiral staircase from the lobby toward the basement level. Seeing no one on that floor, they poked around until they found a metal door with an emergency alarm bar on it. The door appeared to be ajar, the alarm deactivated. Lee gave it a gentle push, and it swung open. No bells or sirens went off. He looked at Jimmy and took a deep breath.
“Here goes.”
A set of narrow steel steps led down to the subbasement level, and as the door closed behind them, Lee felt as if they were entering Hades itself.
The tunnel was dusty and close and airless, lit by overhead fluorescent bulbs pulsating with a sickly green glow. A cold sweat broke out on Lee’s forehead as they threaded their way down the passageway. His headache, never quite gone, had returned full force. The walls were dank and damp, made of crudely mortared river stone. Insulated pipes and wires lined both sides of the passageway, and the floor was littered with a wide variety of detritus—discarded bits of wiring and wood, cigarette butts, paper, and condoms.
Jimmy glanced at the condoms and shuddered. “Gross. Can’t imagine wanting to do it in here. Which direction should we head in?”
“Let’s try this corridor,” Lee said, turning left. The tunnel was silent except for the hum of machinery and electrical wiring. They could hear the distant sound of dripping and an occasional rapid scurrying within the walls.
“I hate rats,” Jimmy whispered as he followed Lee, his gun drawn.
Lee resisted the urge to cough as the dust in the air clogged his windpipe. A thin trickle of sweat slid down the side of his face; the hand he wiped it away with already felt gritty. The thick stone walls were scribbled with algebraic equations, geometric shapes and formulas, as well as more mundane forms of graffiti. Someone named Benoit had left his signature everywhere. There were also Latin phrases, biblical quotes, cartoons and witticisms, including some obscene puns.
Jimmy tapped on Lee’s shoulder, and Lee felt a cold stream of adrenaline flood his system. “My cell phone’s useless down here. How about yours?”
Lee looked at his own phone. The screen read, SEARCHING FOR SERVICE.
“Nope,” he said. “Nothing.”
“So much for backup,” Jimmy sighed as they continued on.
They crept along—listening, watching, waiting. The whole thing could be a wild goose chase, but Lee could feel his heart thumping against his rib cage as they continued down the stuffy, claustrophobic corridor. There was plenty of room to stand up in, but they both crouched instinctively, the low ceilings making them feel as if they had to duck to avoid hitting their heads on the overhead pipes and electrical wires.
“Wow,” said Jimmy from behind him. “No wonder the administration doesn’t want the students down he—”
Lee spun around as Jimmy was interrupted mid-sentence by a muffled thwack, followed by the sound of a body dropping, deadweight, to the floor. He saw an inert Jimmy lying on the ground. Above him stood Edmund Moran, a metal pipe in his hand.
“Why, hello,” he said as he retrieved the gun from Jimmy’s holster. “Fancy meeting you here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Asurge of adrenaline shot up Lee’s spine as he realized the hopelessness of his situation.
“How does it feel to be face-to-face with your nemesis once again?” Edmund asked. “Except that this time, I have all the cards.”
“Aren’t you overstating the case a little?” Lee said, fighting to remain calm.
“You really think so? I have two guns now, and you have—oh, that’s right; that would be none.”
“Where is Debbie Collins?” Lee said.
“Well, now, if you had come by yourself as I requested, I might just show you. But you didn’t take me seriously, did you?”
“What have you done with her?”
“This is really so tedious,” Edmund said. “Like a broken record. Here,” he said, thrusting a piece of rope at Lee, “help me tie up your friend before he regains consciousness.” He trained Jimmy’s gun on Lee. “I assume this is loaded. But if not, I have another one,” he added, lifting his jacket to display the pistol tucked into his belt. “An embarrassment of riches, you might say. Hurry up,” he snapped as Lee bent down to tie the rope around Jimmy’s wrists.
Lee tried to think of a way to make the bonds easy to escape, but Moran was watching him closely. He instructed Lee to tie his friend to one of the pipes in a corner of the corridor, then inspected the knots.
“You’re no sailor,” he said with a smirk, “but it will do.” He produced a pair of handcuffs and snapped them around Jimmy’s left wrist, fastening the other end to the pipe. “Insurance,” he said. “Unless you prefer I kill him now, of course.”
Fearing Jimmy might already be dead, Lee bent down to check on him but was sent sprawling by a vicious blow to the temple. He hit the ground hard, his head spinning, the taste of dust thick in his mouth.
“Careful,” Moran said. “Doing anything without my permission can be hazardous to your health. Come on, get up,” he said, waving the gun at Lee.
Lee tried to stand, but his legs gave way, and he fell back onto his side.
“Good Lord,” Moran said. “That was just one little tap. You have a lot more ahead of you, so you’d better suck it up.”
Lee managed to get unsteadily to his feet and felt the cold steel of a gun muzzle on the back of his neck.
“This way,” Moran said, indicating a turn in the passageway ahead.
Lee walked on, Moran a step behind him. His head was throbbing, and his knees felt weak as he ran scenarios through his head. What if he turned and rushed Moran? Could he move fast enough to disarm him?
A hundred yards or so along the corridor the tunnel emptied into a large room with vaulted ceilings. Furniture was scattered around the room, much of it from an earlier era. Some of the chairs looked to be from the sixties, but a heavy oak desk looked even older. Notebooks and papers were scattered over it, all covered in a thick layer of dust.
On one wall gleaming metal pipes were labeled STEAM in bold lettering. On the wall opposite someone had written Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here. Next to it was a cylinder labeled DANGER: CAUSTIC. Behind that was a large, sinister-looking cabinet with dials and a sign that read DANGER: 4160 VOLTS.
Moran smiled. “Welcome to hell.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Moran said as Lee looked around the room. “They worked on the Manhattan Project down here. There’s even a cyclotron on the first floor of Pupin Hall. But that’s not what we’ve come here for.”
He ducked behind one of the brick columns and reappeared wheeling an old-fashioned metal gurney. On it was Debbie Collins, whom Lee recognized from the photos in Butts’s office, dressed in a hospital gown. Her arms and legs were tied to the gurney with a combination of ropes and handcuffs, and she appeared to be unconscious.
Moran pushed a strand of strawberry blond hair from her face. “I haven’t begun my work on her yet. I was thinking you might like to watch, but you know, I have a better idea. As a profiler, it’s your job to experience what the criminal does, correct?”
Lee just looked at him. He couldn’t get his eyes to focus. He wasn’t about to tell Moran, but everything was blurry around the edges.
Moran raised the gun. “Correct?”
“Yes.”
“So I’m going to offer you an unprecedented opportunity. I will allow you to feel exactly what I do—isn’t that exciting?”
“What do you mean?” Lee said, but he had a sinking feeling he knew the answer. His head pounded in sync with the humming machinery around him. Ker-thump, ker-thump.
Moran rifled through a tool kit on one of the chairs and produced a stylus, the kind artists used. Its metal tip gleamed in the greenish fluore
scent glow.
“I’m going to let you be the artist this time,” he said. “I have a design all ready for you. You’re perhaps wondering where I got this charming gurney? I didn’t know it until fairly recently, but this campus was the site of a mental institution in the nineteenth century. Isn’t that fascinating?” he said, producing a piece of paper with a design in charcoal that looked like the branches of a fir tree.
“Here you are,” he said, holding it out to Lee. “My—our—next creation. Or should we do the fingers first? The next number in the Fibonacci sequence is three, by the way. Did you figure that out? Of course you did,” he added, searching Lee’s face for his reaction. “It’s elegant, isn’t it? Anyway, your choice—fingers or torso. I have a nice scalpel for the fingers here somewhere,” he said, turning to look in the tool kit.
It’s now or never, Lee thought, and he lunged at Moran. He succeeded in knocking him to the floor along with the tool kit, scattering its contents across the concrete floor. Chen’s gun went flying across the room. Moran reached for the one in his belt just as Lee threw himself onto the professor, landing a roundhouse punch on the left side of his face. He could feel the rough, raised skin of the scar crinkle under his knuckles, and he raised his hand to deliver another blow.
Moran was quick, though, and had an unexpected wiry strength. Writhing like an eel, he delivered a vicious kick to Lee’s stomach, knocking the breath out of his body. Lee gulped in as much air as he could and staggered to his feet. He felt a red-hot burning in his left thigh and only afterward heard the report of a gunshot. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the next shot, certain it would be to his head.
But nothing happened. He opened his eyes. Standing at the edge of the room, in the entrance to the tunnel, pale but alive, was Jimmy Chen. In his hand was his backup revolver, which was pointed directly at Edmund Moran’s head.
“Drop the gun,” Jimmy said. “You have two seconds before I shoot.”
Moran turned to face him, hands raised.
“Dear me,” he said. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. Always follow your first instinct—it’s usually the best.”
Silent Slaughter Page 28