"A few weeks ago, right?"
"That's right."
"And you gave it to the task force, right?"
"My lieutenant and captain did."
Carcaterra put down his doughnut and wiped his hand with a napkin. He didn't pick it back up, and he moved the coffee aside so he could lean forward and put his forearm on the desk.
"What are you tellin' me, Joe?"
"Steve," Keough said, "I don't think either case was a Lover victim. I think there's another killer."
Carcaterra stared at Keough a little longer, then sat back in his chair.
"Joe, why would you want to rock the boat?"
"What?" Keough asked, frowning.
"This is a theory of yours, right?"
"Right," Keough said, "so…"
"So write up a five and send it to the task force. Let them worry about whether it's the Lover or not. You and I, we've got enough to do without forming theories that are gonna give us more work."
Keough stared at Carcaterra for a few moments, then made a quick decision to play it.
"I'm not looking to increase your workload, Steve," Keough said. "I was just hoping you could answer some questions for me."
"What questions?"
"How old was the girl who was killed?"
"Seventeen."
"High school student, right?"
"Right," Carcaterra said. "Sheepshead Bay High."
"Sexually attacked?"
"Yes."
"And the rose," Keough said, "the one found on the body?"
"Oh yeah," Carcaterra said, nodding his head, "there was a rose. That's what makes it a Lover case, Joe, no matter what you think."
"Where was the rose, Steve?"
"It was in her pussy, Joe," Carcaterra said with a frown. "Like the others."
"Okay," Keough said, then added, "a red one, right?"
"Right."
"It wasn't, like, white, with thick red stripes?"
Carcaterra said, growing somewhat annoyed, "Jesus Christ, Joe, I know a red rose when I see it, don't I? I ain't color-blind."
Again, Keough wondered about the color of the roses found in Manhattan. He cursed himself for not having read the newspaper coverage more closely.
"Okay, Steve," Keough said soothingly, "I'm just checking."
Carcaterra hesitated a moment, then frowned and asked, "Is that like the other cases?"
"Yeah, Steve," Keough said, rather than trying to explain about the striped rose. "It is. Thanks."
Keough stood up and said, "Thanks for talking to me, Steve."
"Joe," Carcaterra said as Keough headed for the door, "remember what I said about rocking the boat?"
"I remember, Steve."
"I mean," Carcaterra went on, "ain't that how you ended up in the Six-Seven in the first place?"
"Thanks for your help, Steve," Keough said. "Say hello to Lyn for me."
***
Keough was disappointed in Carcaterra, but he really couldn't blame the man. "Don't rock the boat" seemed to be a prevailing attitude these days, not only in the department but everywhere. Why make trouble, or extra work, if you didn't have to? The only problem with that was that Joe Keough didn't like the idea of a second murderer going free just because he was committing his murders in the shadow of the first one, the so-called Lover.
Keough wondered if the second man continued to kill, wouldn't he eventually want to get some credit for his own work?
Keough drove back to the Six-Seven Precinct feeling helpless. He was, after all, just a detective with a stigma. He was "unstable" and had been assigned to the Six-Seven so that he could stay out of trouble. If he started running around now, spouting off about his new theory involving a high-profile case like the Lover, what would his superiors think? They would think that he had really gone off the deep end, and he'd end up in Staten Island-or worse, they'd send him away to the farm.
It grated on him to take no action, but if he just let nature takes its course, maybe somebody at the Lover Task Force would notice the striped rose-if, indeed, it was different from the others-and the comparative youth of the two Brooklyn girls and attach some significance to these facts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two weeks later, nothing had changed on the Lover case, and the killer-either killer-had not struck again. The papers still had stories, though-stories on the victims, stories on their families, interviews with experts on when or where the killer might strike next. Even if the story was in danger of dying in the minds of the public, the newspapers would see to it that it didn't-not to mention television. All of the special news shows seemed to be doing some sort of feature on the case every night. Keough'd even heard a radio call-in show concentrate on the case. They were asking for callers who might know anything about it, and all they got was a bunch of nuts, some of whom claimed to know the Lover and some who claimed to be the Lover.
During this time, Keough had received the news clippings from the Post on all the murders. None of the Manhattan victims were under twenty. Both of the Brooklyn victims were high school girls. Was he the only one who noticed this? Also, while all of the stories told how the roses were inserted into the vaginas of the victims, none of them mentioned the color of the flower.
During the course of the first week, Mike O'Donnell had called Keough to tell him that he couldn't get any information on the color of the roses.
***
"I can imagine the task force keeping some information to themselves," O'Donnell had said, "you know, so they can weed out the chronic confessors? But the color of the damned roses?"
"That's okay, Mike," Keough had said. Actually, it made sense to Keough. Most people would assume that the roses were red, and that would eliminate the chronic confessors. "Thanks for trying."
"You will remember that I tried, won't you, Joe?" O'Donnell asked.
"Don't worry, Mike," Keough said, "when I find out something, you'll be the first to know."
"Hey, did you see the story in the News yesterday. The one by the psychiatrist who says the Lover kills women and inserts the rose in them because he wants to be a woman?"
"I saw it, Mike," Keough said, "I saw it. Thanks again."
He hung up, feeling slightly guilty over not telling O'Donnell about the striped rose in the first Brooklyn killing, but he had decided to keep that to himself for awhile. He didn't know what he was going to do with it, but he was going to keep it quiet, for now at least. He wondered if the red rose in the second Brooklyn case blew his theory? What if the killer had simply run out of red ones with the first Brooklyn girl?
***
Now, fully two weeks after the second Brooklyn killing, Keough awoke late on a day that he was working four-to-twelve tours. He'd been up late thinking about his two-killer theory, even though nothing had changed over the past two weeks.
Who was the Brooklyn killer?
If he was right and there was a Brooklyn killer, what was he like? What was his motive? All the psychiatrists put this sort of thing down to childhood abuse, mother fixations, and the like. Could there be two killers running around with that kind of background? Or was the Brooklyn killer simply emulating the Manhattan killer for some reason? Hero worship? Trying to hide one of his crimes among the apparently motiveless serial killings?
Why, he wondered, stumbling out of bed, was he even thinking about it?
He staggered to the front door and opened it to see if there was still a newspaper in the hall he could borrow this late in the day.
"Late night?" he heard a voice ask.
He turned and looked at Nancy Valentine. She looked fresh and pretty and smelled wonderful, straight from a bath or a shower. She was wearing jeans and a black short-sleeved blouse, which looked great on her.
He, on the other hand, looked disheveled in an old robe and he smelled like a goat. Suddenly, and for the first time in a long time, he felt uncomfortable being in her presence… and she noticed.
"It was, uh, yeah, pretty late…" he said lamely. "
You're, uh, getting a late start yourself."
"I took the day off," she said. "Cindy has a play at summer school this afternoon."
"Oh… she'll be real good…"
"She, uh, wanted me to ask you if you could come," Nancy said. "I warned her you might be working."
"Oh, I'm sorry… I am," he said. "Four to twelves, this week."
"See? I told her."
"I'm sorry, Nancy"
"She'll understand, Joe," she said. "Don't worry about it. Uh, are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Nancy, really."
"Well, all right."
She started down the hall, then turned and said, "Terrible about the Lover, huh?"
"What?"
She turned and looked at him, surprised.
"I heard it on the radio this morning," she said. "Oh, you just got up. That's right. You don't know."
"No," he said, blinking. "No, I didn't… hear."
"He struck again," Nancy said, shaking her head. "Poor girl."
Keough stood stock-still and said, "Where?"
"What?"
"Where, Nancy?" he said too harshly. "Where did he strike?"
"I… don't know the address…"
"In Brooklyn, or in Manhattan?" he asked, trying to keep himself under control.
"Oh… Manhattan, I think… Yes, I'm sure they said Manhattan. The Village."
"Are you all right, Joe?"
"I'm fine, Nancy. I-I'm fine, really…"
"Well… okay…" she said, backing away. She eyed him with concern one last time, then turned and went to the elevator.
He shook his head and entered his apartment. He went right to the phone and called the office at Borough Headquarters. The phone was answered by the civilian aide he wanted to talk to, PAA Dani Rini.
"Dani, it's Keough."
"Hello, Joe," she said.
"I heard the Lover hit again last night. Is that right?"
"Gee, I don't know, Joe," she said. "It wasn't in the papers. Was it in Brooklyn?"
"My neighbor told me she heard it on the radio," Keough said. "She's sure it was Manhattan."
"I'm sorry, Joe," she said apologetically, "I don't know anything about it."
"Okay, Dani, thanks," he said, hanging up.
He knew he wasn't thinking right. Nancy had said the murder happened in the Village. All he had to do was call the Sixth Precinct.
He dialed the number and got a Detective Riley.
"Riley, this is Keough, Six-Seven Squad," he said. "Did you have a Lover victim last night?"
There was a pause and then Riley said, "The lid is supposed to be on it."
"Jesus, it was on the radio," Keough said. "All I want to know is whether it's true or not. I'm not asking for any state secrets."
"Well… okay, then, it's true," Riley said.
"You turning it over to the task force?"
"Definitely."
"Anything about it different from the others?"
"Shit, I don't know. It's not my case-well, it's not our case anymore, but I didn't catch it."
"Who did?"
"Bobby Porter."
Keough didn't know the man.
"Is he there?"
"No," Riley said, "he's gone for the day."
"Already?"
There was silence. It was Keough's bet that Porter didn't want to talk to anyone about the case, not even another copor someone on the phone claiming to be a cop. At that moment, Keough hoped that Riley wouldn't ask him for the color of the day-the usual code that identified cops to one another on the phone. The color was changed each day, and he didn't know yet what today's color was.
"You got a location on the body?" Keough asked, pushing his luck. "Where it was found, I mean."
"Negative."
Keough decided he'd gotten enough on a pass. Any minute, the cop on the other end was going to ask for ID. In fact, he should have before even talking.
"All right," he said, passing a hand over his tired eyes. "Okay, thanks, Riley."
"Sure," Riley said. "What's your interest, anyway?"
"Just curious," Keough said. "I caught one in Brooklyn, and I've sort of been following it."
"Oh," Riley said. "Well, anything else I can do for you?"
"No," Keough said. "No, that's it. Thanks."
He hung up and rubbed both hands over his eyes. He could call Mike O'Donnell at the Post, but his guess was that the press didn't have much on it yet, either.
He needed to talk to someone who was actually on the Lover Task Force. He picked up his phone and dialed his old command, the Vice Squad. When the line was picked up, he asked for Detective Lowell.
"He's not here."
"Who's this?"
"PAA Corby."
"Corby," he said, recognizing the name. Pat Corby was a sharp, young black female aide who was the most competent civilian he had ever worked with.
"Joe? How the hell are you?"
"I'm fine, Pat."
"You don't sound fine, Joey," she said.
"I'm fine, sort of."
"Lowell's gonna be pissed he missed you," she said. "Can I help?"
"I don't know, Pat," he said. "You tell me. I need to talk to somebody on the Lover Task Force. Do they have a civilian clerical who you might know?"
"Nah," Corby said, "the task forces usually use cops as clericals."
"You wouldn't happen to know anyone on the squad, would you?"
"No," she said, "but I might know somebody who does. I know a civilian in the C of D's office."
"Jesus," he said, she had an in to the chief of detective's office? He wondered idly if there was some sort of civilian pipeline running through the whole department.
"I can find out for you, Joe," she said. "What do you want?"
"The names of all the detectives on the task force, Pat. Can you do that for me?"
"Sure I can, Joe," she said. "The way the job shit on you? You deserve a favor, don't you?"
"Hey," he said, "I think so."
"So do I," she said. "I'll see what I can do and get back to you."
"If I'm not home, you can get me at the precinct."
"Six-Seven Squad, right?"
"Yeah."
"Bummer," she said, and hung up.
He hung up and dry-washed his face with his hands again. He needed a shower and a shave.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The department courier from the Sixth Precinct showed up at the task force office and Len Swann accepted the packet from the uniformed cop. He opened it, scanned it, and then took it straight to Slovecky's office.
"The report's here, Loo," he announced.
There were four men in the room. Slovecky was seated behind his desk, looking like a man who had just gotten up-and he had. He'd only arrived about twenty minutes ago, and he looked as if he hadn't even combed his hair.
Sitting in a chair right in front of the desk was Detective Sgt. Artie Dolan, a pleasant, red-faced man with brown hair who was in his late thirties. He had one leg crossed over the other, and his foot was wiggling up and down. Dolan was the second whip. He was destined to be a lieutenant before he was forty.
Sitting next to Dolan was Eddie Samuelson, a slow-moving man in his fifties who was counting the days until his retirement. He was a detective third grade.
The third man was standing, and he towered over everyone else in the room. Det. Tim Mollica stood about six four and was broad in the shoulders and chest. In his late forties, he had played minor-league ball in the New York Mets organization. A first baseman with good hands, he couldn't hit a curveball, and he couldn't catch a ball that was thrown directly at him. He could field and he could scoop bad throws out of the dirt, but that ball coming directly at him always flustered him. Consequently, he never made it beyond Triple-A ball, where for a while they had been calling him the next Ed Kranepool.
This was half of the field men who comprised the Lover Task Force. There were three other detectives, and then Swann, the clerical man. With Slovecky, it was
an eight-man task force.
"Let me have it," Slovecky said, putting out a meaty hand.
Swann handed it over and Slovecky dropped it on the desk in front of him. He looked up at Swann, who hadn't moved.
"That's all, Swann," Slovecky said. "Why don't you make some coffee."
Swann bit his lip and said, "Yes, sir."
He went back into the other room, leaving the door to the boss's office open. He'd be able to hear everything, anyway.
The case was identical to the others, apparently, except for one thing. This time, the killer had left a note. That was why the lid was on. The newspapers didn't know about the note yet.
Slovecky held up a copy of the note, the original of which had already been sent to the lab on the precinct level.
"What's it say, Loo?" Dolan asked.
Slovecky read it aloud: " 'I am the real Lover; there are no others. I would not sully my hands in Brooklyn. Do not look for me there.' "
"It's signed," Slovecky said, " 'the Lover.' "
"Well," Dolan said, "apparently he's accepted the name the press have hung on him."
"Big deal," Mollica said around his pipe. "We've only been calling him that for months. Now we have his permission."
Slovecky wasn't listening. He was on the phone dialing the Sixth Precinct. When the phone was answered, he asked for the duty captain who had shown up at the scene where the body was found. The man was still there, and he came on the line.
"Captain, this is Lieutenant Slovecky, of the Lover Task Force," he said. "Yes, sir, we received the reports. That was very prompt. Yes, sir, I will. Uh, Captain, this note-can you tell me who else read it? Uh-huh… uh-huh… and that's all? We're talking about three men, counting yourself, right?… Okay, good. Captain, I probably don't have to tell you this, but I will anyway. We don't want anyone-and I mean anyone-else to know what that note says… That's right, yes… Uh-huh… I knew you'd understand. Would you make it clear to the other two men? Ask them if they want to work in East Flatbush, or the Bronx. Right… right… I knew I could count on you, sir. Thanks."
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