American Devil

by Oliver Stark

  ‘You think there’s a connection?’

  ‘Read the label.’

  Harper read the title and sucked in his breath. Sebastian was the name the American Devil gave himself on the phone. ‘You think he was making a reference?’

  ‘I think that an arrow is a strange way to kill someone.’

  ‘Good work, Denise. But what does it mean? You think he’s into art?’

  ‘He killed Williamson as if he was a martyred saint, he posed Elizabeth Seale like a nude. Amy and Jessica might reference paintings we don’t recognize.’

  ‘It’s worth looking into,’ said Harper. ‘If your idea is right and he knew the first three girls better than Jessica and Amy, then this might be something. We need to check up on their interest in art.’

  They stood there shoulder to shoulder, staring at the Renaissance images of the martyred saint.

  ‘What’s the significance of St Sebastian?’ said Harper after a while.

  ‘His motto is Beauty constant under torture. Our killer thinks he’s a martyr. He thinks he’s the one who suffers most of all.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dr Levene’s Apartment

  November 22, 6.00 a.m.

  Denise was woken at 6 a.m. by a persistent knocking at the door. She was dreaming of a prairie. A huge open prairie. Her father was visible but only at a distance. He was calling something that she couldn’t understand. As she squinted into the sunlight to discern what he was saying, his image zoomed with frightening suddenness and she could see that he was calling her name and sinking into the ground.

  ‘Denise, Denise, Denise.’

  Her eyes opened. Her left arm moved out to her bedside cabinet and hit Daniel as she flicked the switch. A low orange glow lit a corner of the room. Daniel groaned and shrugged. Fahrenheit was lying flat out across the foot of the bed and hadn’t stirred. A great guard dog he’d turned out to be. Denise got up and stood in a vest and shorts, on the carpet. She could hear the voice at her door now. It was difficult to discern, but her name was being repeated in a loud whisper.

  ‘Denise, Denise, Denise.’

  At her door, she took the red towelling robe and put it on. She wasn’t afraid for her safety. How could she be? Her man was asleep in the bedroom and her guard dog was slumbering beside him.

  As she reached the narrow corridor that led from her living room to the apartment door, she thought she recognized the voice.

  She relaxed. Who else would it be? The door opened and she looked down at the crouching figure of Tom Harper calling through the keyhole. Behind her, Fahrenheit appeared around the door of the bedroom, walked across and stared quizzically at Tom.

  Tom saw Denise’s legs first, a glimpse of her smooth tanned thigh between the ruby of her gown. He looked up. Her hair was forward on her face, messy from sleep. She had a cross look on her face.

  ‘Are you having a crisis?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want to come in?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Denise turned and walked to the kitchen, leaving Tom to stand and enter by himself. He watched her walk. She was more graceful without her heels, a softer, slightly longer stride - more confident. Then his eyes looked around her apartment. Her office was a temple of order, this was not - clothes and bags and shoes lay all over the room.

  ‘I’ve heard this happens to some therapists,’ she said, a coffee pot in one hand. ‘You know, guys getting fixated, calling after hours for a chat. I didn’t figure you for the type, but if you need me, you need me.’

  ‘I need you,’ said Tom, watching her closely. He liked her off-duty attitude.

  Denise nodded, but decided not to follow it. ‘How did you get in?’ she asked. ‘And while you’re there, how did you know where I lived?’

  Tom shrugged.

  ‘You’re a cop, right.’

  He nodded.

  ‘So, you like Colombian or Ethiopian?’

  ‘I’ll leave the decision to you.’

  ‘Very wise, Detective. I care about my coffee.’

  Tom watched her take a small steel scoop and extract some bright brown beans from a jar. She whizzed them in a grinder, then filled her espresso machine with the grind. She was on automatic the whole time. Her eyes were hardly open. In her living room, there was a collection of framed photographs on the sideboard. He picked one up. A lanky guy with a cheesy smile had his arm draped around her shoulder. He was in several of the pictures, but one particular photograph had a spot in the centre. It was a picture of a rugged-looking man with a little girl on his knee. She was smiling like a sunbeam and so was he.

  ‘I get all my beans from a specialist delicatessen in Little Italy. I recommend a visit,’ Denise called through. She appeared with the coffee. ‘I guess this isn’t social, so what’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been working through the night. This killer’s working a two-day cycle, which means that today he strikes again. Some poor blonde woke up this morning and she won’t go to sleep tonight.’

  ‘That’s quite a burden to carry.’

  ‘Erin Nash still won’t speak. Eddie saw her yesterday. She knew all about Elizabeth Seale. She knew he took her uterus. No one knew that. You read it?’

  ‘Yeah, course I did. Horrible. She said nothing?’

  ‘Not a thing. Says she just has a good source. If it’s one of my own team!’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘There just aren’t that many people who know the details. You know he posed Elizabeth like a painting. Like the painting on the wall of Jessica Pascal’s apartment. A nude. She looked beautiful from the front. He’d kept her all nice there, but behind, yeah, he’d gone to work.’

  ‘Calm down, Tom.’

  ‘Nate’s death has got to us all. After that picture in the Frick, I’ve been trying to track down any art links with the victims. Ten hours solid and nothing. It’s not art. Sorry. I’m wired.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking all night. Going over the fiasco at the Laker Building. The killer knew what we were up to, he knew it was a set-up and he set us up. Made fools of us. But he had Williamson’s home scoped already. He was seen parked in his road twice in the past week. I think he was going to kill Nate anyway.’

  ‘And now you’re the lead detective. You thinking that he’s after you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe he went for Nate because he thought he wasn’t high-profile enough.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought of that.’

  ‘I guess he wants to prove he’s the best. Or maybe he wants you all to know you’re not invulnerable.’

  ‘The one thing that keeps coming up in my mind is the fact that you knew how he’d react. You were able to predict his behaviour. No one else has got close to this guy, but you got him. I know he played us, but you got him to speak to us. How the hell did you do that?’

  ‘I trained in psychology; you know that.’

  ‘No, this was special. You were able to think like him, think how he felt. Where did you learn to think like a killer?’

  Denise shuffled in her seat. ‘My research meant I spent time interviewing killers. I went to training sessions at Quantico. I picked it up.’

  Harper looked at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t believe you. There’s more, isn’t there? I’ve been to those training sessions with the FBI and I couldn’t have predicted his behaviour like you did.’

  ‘It was a lucky shot.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Tom looked into her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to call so early, but if we can’t track down how these women knew the killer then we need to work out where he stalks his victims. I want to do a reconstruction. I want to run through the murder at the Elizabeth Seale crime scene and I need you there. I need that talented head of yours. You might see something everyone else has missed. What do you think? Might help? Would you?’

  Denise’s eyes widened. ‘Get out of here, Tom.’

  ‘Come on. I need some fresh thoughts.
You predicted his behaviour. You understand him. I’ll keep you safe. It’ll be okay.’

  ‘Visiting a murdered girl’s apartment at dawn with a cop I’m supposed to be treating - are you kidding?’

  The door to the bedroom opened and Daniel walked in. ‘Lot of commotion for six a.m. Are we in trouble?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Denise. ‘We’ll try to keep it down.’

  ‘Is that coffee I smell?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll get you some. This is Detective Harper, North Manhattan Homicide. Tom, this is Daniel Mercer.’

  ‘Morning,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

  Denise walked through to the kitchen to fetch the coffee. Daniel stood looking at Harper. ‘My girlfriend under arrest, Detective?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Early for a house call, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re talkative, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m on police business, sir. Got nothing to say.’

  ‘What do you want with Denise? She’s a psychotherapist, not a cop.’

  ‘It’s confidential business, sir. I can’t say.’

  Denise arrived back with the coffee. ‘Daniel, we’re kind of in the middle of something. Would you give us a minute?’

  ‘Sure, but it all sounds very secretive to me. Hope you’re not getting in too deep, Denise.’

  ‘Hey, if I wanted a handler, I’d be wearing a collar.’

  Daniel took his coffee and left the room. Harper looked across to Denise. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had someone here. I’ll go. I’m just not thinking straight. My apologies.’

  ‘What about your reconstruction?’

  ‘I can go through it alone. We can talk later.’

  ‘You think I can help?’

  ‘It might make the difference.’

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ she said, breathing in the aroma of her coffee. ‘I’ve never even been to a crime scene.’

  ‘It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?’

  ‘And what do I do?’

  ‘You’re the victim.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just terrific. I’m typecast on my first case.’

  ‘I’m not much good in heels. And I need to walk in his shoes a while. I got to feel this guy think. But don’t feel you ought to.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m coming,’ Denise said. ‘But no weird shit. Give me ten minutes.’ She drank the espresso down in one.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Laker Building

  November 22, 6.48 a.m.

  Denise and Tom drove over to the Laker Building in silence. Daniel had not been in a good mood when she went back into the bedroom to dress, but she just ignored it. It was the only way to deal with his unfounded jealousy. She put on her jacket, and then, as an afterthought, took a little photograph of her father and put it in her pocket. He’d come with her. She might need some moral support.

  There were reasons why Denise knew the criminal mind and it wasn’t from anything she’d learned at Quantico. Throughout her childhood, she had come to know the inside of a prison well. She had come to know about the dangerous criminals who inhabited the same strange rooms as her father. He told her the stories. No lies from her old man. He told his little girl, straight. Never romance or euphemism. He pointed them out - the rapists, the murderers, the child molesters he did time with. He told her what they’d done, why they’d done it and what they were like. He told her that’s why they were locked up. Her father had told her everything she ever needed to know about the criminal mind from behind a perspex screen.

  He also told her that he never meant to kill Albert Mack and she believed him. He told her he regretted it every day, but you had to live with your mistakes.

  Her mother was long gone by the time Denise got to know her father. The little girl lived with a collection of relatives in a small tenement building. It was not bad. It was limited, sure, they had nothing, but they were good people, all of them. And they looked after her.

  When Denise Levene got a scholarship to university, she was the pride of her family. Her old man cried for the first time in his adult life. It was the only time they’d ever got sentimental with each other and it didn’t last long. Cancer was burrowing up through his gut by then and he only had a year to live.

  So Denise was left with a legacy. She was not afraid of criminals or their mental states. She was fascinated by the darkness that took those lives and destroyed them. She was just about brilliant enough to end up at Quantico, but her family’s criminal background meant that she didn’t get through the first round of interviews.

  But you pick yourself up and try again. And then again and then again. And that was her philosophy: get off your knees.

  She looked across at Harper, firmly gripping the wheel. She could see from his eyes, his attitude, that he could easily have been on the other side - some maverick, hard-ass criminal. She thought he maybe saw something in her too. Some basic recognition. You know it when you meet someone who’s actually lived. You see it. You just have to look down a little to catch it. People with scuffed knees.

  They arrived at Elizabeth Seale’s apartment just before 6.50 a.m. Harper’s police shield got him through the doors, and Marvin was still sitting on the desk.

  Tom flicked on the lights. Denise was feeling her heart beat heavily in her chest. ‘Kind of spooky to think the poor girl came in like this and was dead an hour later.’

  ‘Medical report says he kept her breathing for as long as he could. He sat there and held a plastic bag round her neck until she nearly died, then he opened up the bag. Over and over again, just playing with her life like it’s some toy.’ Tom walked further into the apartment. ‘I like to do reconstructions. Run through the scene, see if it brings anything to light.’

  Denise looked around. The apartment was cold. It already had the feel of an abandoned place. She shrugged. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘I’ll hide in the wardrobe, just like he was. You come in, put your bag down. Come into the bedroom.’

  ‘Got it. Then you kill me, right? It’s just like a first date.’

  Tom nodded and went into the bedroom. He moved inside the wardrobe. The chair that the killer had used was still there. Tom sat down. He tried to calm his breathing. It was definitely spooky. He could see through the thin gap between the wardrobe doors. A thin line of light. This was how the killer had seen his victim. This was where he sat, excited and demonic. What was he doing in the wardrobe? Was he daydreaming? Anticipating? Thinking of how he was going to kill her?

  Denise went outside the apartment. Half of her was thinking, what the hell am I doing? Still, if it might help, she was willing to try it. She wondered if the hardnosed Detective Harper was just plain old-fashioned lonely and needed a good excuse for company. She suspected that he was.

  She re-entered Elizabeth Seale’s apartment, but this time she was on her own. She looked into the dark and silent room and switched on the lights. She felt the apprehension that Elizabeth Seale would not have felt and tried to act casual. She did what she would’ve done, which was to toss her bag on the polished mahogany side table in the small hallway. Elizabeth was probably a lot more refined. She probably had a handbag storage system. Denise shivered. She shouldn’t make light of it. Poor Elizabeth Seale had no idea that there was a killer lurking in her home. A killer who had been tracking her movements for months, who was waiting in the shadows, waiting not only to kill her but to slowly torture her to death.

  ‘Perhaps he was taking things from his victims for months,’ she called out. Harper heard her but didn’t reply. The silence made Denise feel doubly scared. Suddenly she felt really alone.

  ‘Tom!’ she said quietly, trying to stop her hand shaking. Pretending to be a murder victim was just plain wrong in every way. She felt the fear soak through her. She knew it was irrational, but she felt it just the same. A thin line of perspiration formed on her upper lip. Her skin was tingling, her pulse drumming a fast beat. The room was still
cordoned off and sealed. In the early morning, it was an eerie place to be.

  ‘Bastard,’ she mouthed as she walked through the living room and kicked off her shoes. She then walked into the bedroom. ‘Okay, I’m in the bedroom.’ Still no reply from the guy in the closet, who was taking this way too seriously. It wasn’t nice. Not long ago, in this very room, the American Devil had been waiting in the wardrobe with a seven-inch blade and a plastic bag. He’d killed Elizabeth slowly, slit open her side, taken out her uterus and probably photographed her in all kinds of poses.

  Denise shivered. Her eyes were on the wardrobe. On the bed, she saw that Tom had placed a dress. She walked over and looked at it. Then, from behind, she heard the door of the wardrobe creak open. She turned quickly.

  For a moment, it was not Tom coming out of the wardrobe but a stranger in the shadows and her heart thumped. ‘Tom,’ she called out. There was no answer. He was staring hard, trying to feel the killer’s movements.

  ‘Tom, you’re scaring the fuck out of me, you shit!’

  ‘Shut up. I’m concentrating. The killer approaches the victim. She freezes and he shows her his knife. He tells her not to cry out or he’ll hurt her. She asks him what he wants. She says she can get him anything he wants. He shakes his head. Nothing is knocked over, so I guess she doesn’t run. He walks over. He’s holding the knife. Then he takes hold of her.’

  Tom walked over to Denise. He suddenly realized that she wasn’t joking. Her hands were shaking. He pulled up and smiled. ‘Are you all right?’ he said.

  ‘I’m okay. But, no, I don’t like it. I don’t like it. Why did he do that to her? In here. God. She was alone and terrified and there was nothing she could do. How can anyone put someone through that?’

  Tom moved forward. He put his arms round Denise and she let herself fall against his body. ‘It’s just like you say in your theories,’ he said. ‘He desires them as objects, but doesn’t see them as people. Are you okay?’ Just a second more, she thought, resting her head on his shoulder. It felt safe against his chest, with his arms around her. And then she felt herself resenting her own weakness and pushed him away from her.