“What do you want, Leon?”
“I want to play the game, Mr. Doyle.”
“What game, Leon?”
“It’s called try and catch me.”
“Why did you kill Zobranski, Leon?”
“To get you into the game, Mr. Doyle. You remember Maggie Swain? Constance Delavaria? You do remember them, don’t you, Mr. Doyle?”
“I remember them, Leon. And the others you killed as well.” Their faces flashed on the back of my eyelids, instant visual, olfactory and audio recall. I saw them again, smelled them again, grieved for them again. Aretha Warburton; Constance Delavaria; Jennifer Colzik, only 15, found in a run down motel just outside Atlantic City; Kirsten Steinbach; Lakita Birdsong; Julie Torres; Maggie Swain and Amy Sorge. And now Louise Driscoll and Maureen Zobranski. “I remember them, Leon. I remember them all.”
“So do I, Mr. Doyle. Remember them fondly. And others you know nothing about. My favorite was Constance Delavaria. Delightful woman. Older than most of my little girls, a pleasure to talk to, an intelligent woman. She was a junkie and a whore, just like all the rest, but she made me laugh, Mr. Doyle. I tell you, it was a difficult decision. I thought of letting her go, of just leaving her lying there, duct tape and all, but then I thought, no, I can’t, she’s seen me. Sometimes we have to do things we’d rather not do, Mr. Doyle.”
“Why the fake spiders, Leon?”
“It’s kind of expected, Mr. Doyle. Have you ever read the literature? The literature says most of us leave a calling card of some kind, so I’m just keeping up tradition. So that’s all they are, a calling card.”
“Why did you kill Louise Driscoll?”
He laughed. “That’s what I do, Mr. Doyle. That’s what I do.”
If Kelley were here she could check caller ID and see the number he’s calling from and call the cops on her cell phone. But she wasn’t here, she was asleep, and I didn’t want to tell Leon to hold on, I had to get my wife. Besides, I doubted he used his home phone or cell phone. There were still some outside pay phones around, and he was probably calling from one of those. Still, you never know. People sometimes do stupid things. We’ll give the number to Frank in the morning.
“What do you want, Leon?”
“I don’t have much time, Mr. Doyle. I just wanted to tell you the game was on, and that I was sorry about Constance Delavaria.”
He hung up, and I sat there for some time.
Constance Delavaria. I drifted back eight years, to a ramshackle, run down old abandoned warehouse along the Delaware, surrounded by weeds and decaying nineteenth century factory buildings. I saw it all again, Frank Kopf and I, three months almost to the day since Maggie Swain.
“Looks like another one, partner,” Frank Kopf said.
We put the car behind a parked squad car and walked down to the river, along an old gravel driveway now overrun with weeds, but still walkable. High summer heat and Philadelphia humidity drenched me almost as soon as I left the car. The high grass had a brilliant green smell to it and the constant whirr of insect sound reminded me we were not alone. A soft and errant breeze rolled off the river, bringing with it the subtle smells of decaying mud and decaying buildings and the not so subtle smell of decaying human.
Before us stood an old brick factory building, windows rusty frames without glass, the painted name MACLANN CARPETS still faintly visible. A few feet away a pair of rusty rails led to the old Maclann warehouse, roof sagging, roll-up loading dock door off its track, hanging by one corner.
“An odd place to take a whore, partner,” Frank said.
We nodded to the officer standing by a short flight of concrete steps leading to the loading dock and an open door and we went into the old building, stepping across old boxes and rolled up carpeting, the smell growing with every step. Another officer stood by an open doorway, a handkerchief held to his nose.
“She’s inside,” the officer said, not that he had to.
In the suffocating heat, in the suffocating stink, in what remained of a dirty, bare floored office, a decomposing woman lay on an old, blood spattered single bed, bound like Maggie Swain, a woman we would come to know was a prostitute named Constance Delavaria.
“Another spider,” Frank sighed. Turning to the uniformed officer, Frank said, “What do you know about this?”
“We got a call from the mother of a couple of kids, brothers, playing along the river, came into the building here and found her, ran home and told their mom and she called us. Richards and I got here about ten minutes ago, and waited for you.”
“Anybody else been here since you got here?”
“Nobody, sir.”
“Anybody called the Crime Scene people? Medical Examiner?”
“No sir. We was waitin’ on you.”
“Okay, go call them. And you and your partner stick around, we might need you.”
The officer left, no doubt thankfully, and Frank said, “Good man, sticking it out in here till we got here. I’m not so sure I’d be able to. Not getting any younger.”
“It’s Maggie Swain all over again, Frank,” I said. “And that means we gotta talk to Jeannie.”
The Medical Examiner came and did what she does, all without evident distress.
“How do you stand the stink like that, Sylvie?” Frank asked.
“This is nothing,” Sylvia Ruhl grunted, examining the body, “you should see the stuff that goes on our tables. Stick it out for three minutes and after that you don’t smell a thing. The trick is not to fight it. Don’t wear a mask, don’t try not to breathe. Pretend it isn’t there, and pretty soon it won’t be.”
Stan Morland and the Crime Scene people arrived and did what they do, and Constance Delavaria was taken downtown to be examined by the forensic people. We talked to the kids, who said they often played along the river, but had never gone into that particular building before, and had seen nothing suspicious in the days preceding their finding the deceased. The boys’ mother knew nothing, confessed she didn’t know the boys played down by the river, and all in all we knew no more of the killer than we knew after Maggie Swain. After that we went to see Jean Karpas. Not that I had a lot of faith in profiling, but you never know.
“First of all,” Jeannie said, “he’s not yet a serial killer, at least not to us. He has to kill three before he qualifies.”
“We don’t know if there’s been more than two,” Frank said, “but there could be.”
“Exactly. He could’ve killed others, but we just don’t know. But let’s assume he’s killed at least three. Are you familiar with the FBI’s Crime Classification Manual? No? Well, the FBI places serial killers in three categories: organized, disorganized and mixed.”
“Sounds pretty much like you’d categorize most of us,” Frank said.
“Well, basically, an organized killer is careful and methodical, while a disorganized killer is careless and impulsive. The one picks his victims carefully, the other acts on impulse.”
“And the mixed, I gather,” Frank said, “does both.”
“Does both, but usually starts out organized, then degenerates into impulse killings.”
“So far it doesn’t look like there’s anything here for us, partner,” Frank said to me.
“Well,” Jeannie said defensively, “Nobody ever said profiling will give you a name and address.”
“I’ve been doing some reading,” I said. “It seems the majority of serial killers are single, white males. Other shared characteristics, like bed wetting, seem less than helpful. What does his behavior tell you about motive?”
“Generally speaking,” Jeannie said, “motives can be placed in categories. Mission oriented, sex, thrill and visionary. From what you tell me, both victims were prostitutes. That’s a very small sample, but that much indicates a mission oriented motive, that is, he wants to kill prostitutes for some reason. On the other hand, he might just like the thrill of killing, and prostitutes are easily acquired. On the other other hand, semen all over them might indi
cate either sex or control. If sex, the semen is readily explainable. If control, it could mean he shows contempt for his victim over whom he has total control, evidenced by the tying up.”
“What’s a visionary?” Frank said.
“Somebody who believes he has been instructed by God or demons to kill. Son of Sam thought his neighbor’s dog was instructing him to kill.”
“So basically, Jeannie,” Frank said, “we’ll know which he is when we catch him.”
The scene floated away, drifting into the darkness. The difference between then and now is that now I know who he is. Or at least I know his first name. Leon. If it is Leon. That could be false too, in fact, probably is. But that was all I had to go on at the moment, so Leon he will be until we find out differently. Leon was the killer, and Bobby Micelli had seen him. He had stopped in at Jack’s Place, and that probably meant he lived nearby. It also meant Bobby Micelli was in danger. And I called Leon with a number Bobby gave me, and unless that was a pay phone number and he was hanging around waiting for it to ring, it was his home phone, and Leon would expect me to have written it down. Which I didn’t. But Leon wouldn’t know that, wouldn’t know I don’t remember the number. Maybe I’m in as much danger as Bobby. But then, why would he call me? I remembered one of the things Jeannie Karpas had told us about serial killers. That they get overconfident the longer they go uncaught, and believe they are invincible. Leon is playing a game, betting he can outwit me, outwit the cops, because he’s smarter than everyone else. I felt better. Leon was not about to sneak up on me and put a bullet in the back of my head. I don’t think that’s the game he has in mind.
7
First thing in the morning we gave our deposition to Killarney, after which we went to see Frank. We found him in his cubicle, and after the usual pleasantries I said, “Frank, your killer is a guy named Leon, though that probably isn’t his real name.” I told him all about it, about Bobby Micelli, about Leon calling me last night and admitting he’d killed Maggie Swain and Constance Delavaria.
“If he admits that,” Frank said, “then he killed the others as well.”
“Exactly.” I handed him the number Leon called from. “Probably a pay phone, but you never know.”
“Thanks, partner,” Frank said. “We’ll track this sucker down. Probably a pay phone, like you say. He admitted he killed Zobranski?”
“He did, and as much as admitted he did Driscoll too. And he’s here in town. He stopped into Jack’s Place from time to time, and that probably means he’s local. Bobby Micelli gave me Leon’s number, and this one doesn’t ring a bell. Assuming the number Bobby gave me was Leon’s home number, then Bobby may have written it down.”
“He may very well have. I’ll be waiting outside when the place opens.”
“You might warn Bobby to be careful. Leon probably didn’t plan any of this. You remember what Jeannie said about an organized killer, that he often turns disorganized, impulsive? I’m betting Zobranski was impulsive. My looking for Zobranski probably set it in motion, and he probably realizes Bobby has his phone number. He may or may not try to erase a mistake.”
“You be careful too, partner,” Frank said. “He didn’t call you last night just to chit chat. He’s taunting you. He has something in mind. Watch your back.”
“I’ll be careful, Frank. Besides, he’d have to deal with Buster.”
We said solong and Kelley dropped me off and headed back to North Philly, still on the trail of Youssef Paul and Tamika Johnson. In the office, coat off and Buster comfortable in his corner, I hit the play button in case there was a message waiting, and Valerie Bauman said, “Good morning, Matt. There’s a report of Arthur Donaldson being seen at the soup kitchen at 46th and Spruce. Give me a call, please.”
I told her we’d send somebody out, then called Ed and filled him in.
“Killed over a box, eh” he said mildly. “I’ve seen people killed over money, women, drugs, cars, imagined slights and sometimes over nothing, but I never saw anybody killed over a box.”
“It was a big box.”
“Oh, all right then. I’ll head out to the soup kitchen. Do you have a description?”
“No, just the name. If they know him out there, maybe you can come up with one.”
I called Sammy Weese and told him we found his Maureen, but she was dead. I told him what had happened to her, but not all of it.
Sammy was silent for a moment, then said, “You’re sure it was Maureen?”
“No question. I dropped one of your glossies off at the Roundhouse, and Bill Farber in Vice recognized her. Her last name was Zobranski. I’ll send you a bill unless you have something further in mind.”
“This is a setback,” he said, “but we have to keep at it. We have to try and place Jimmy in Atlantic City last Thursday night, dead alibi witness or no dead alibi witness. Come on over and I’ll fill you in.”
Sammy sounded urgent, and a few minutes later we were ushered into a conference room. Buster found me a chair and settled in under the table. Sammy arrived in a cloud of mint aftershave and immediately started talking, the theatrical voice booming off the walls.
“I just spent the last two hours talking to Jimmy,” he said, “dredging up every last memory of that night. Maybe some of it will help.”
“I’ve got to tell you this, Sammy,” I said. “The cops have already checked out the alibi, and are convinced Jimmy wasn’t there.”
“They’d be convinced he wasn’t even if he was,” Sammy scoffed. “I want you to look into it anyway. If we can’t put Jimmy in Atlantic City last Thursday, we have to find out who killed Tommy DeMarco. The cops are concentrating on Jimmy. They’ve been trying to get him for a long time, and maybe they think this is their chance to put him away, whether he did it or not.”
Typical defense lawyer bull. My client is innocent and the cops are trying to railroad him. I let it go by without comment.
“I want you to continue on this case for me,” Sammy said. “I want you to go to Harrah’s and see if you can find a dealer who remembers Jimmy and Maureen being there last Thursday. Sometimes people don’t tell the cops what they know, they don’t want to get involved. I know it’s a longshot, and I don’t expect anything will come of it, but you never know. When you’ve done that, I have something bigger for you. I want you to look into the murder of Tommy DeMarco. I want you to be a Homicide dick once again, I want you to dig into it. God knows the cops aren’t looking real hard to find an alternate suspect.”
“All right,” I said, “Tell me what happened.”
“They found Tommy sitting in his car, slumped over the wheel, parked at the curb on Cameron Street in South Philly. The driver’s side window was down. They found the gun in a sewer four blocks away. The gun was traced to a gun shop burglary two years ago, no telling how many hands it crossed before winding up in the sewer.”
“Who found him?”
“A newspaper deliveryman, approximately five twenty a.m. The cops arrived shortly after, and Homicide was called. Two detectives, Dan Acker and Carl Geist, arrived at five forty three. Their report says there was no rigor, meaning he’d been there less than four hours. The report goes on to say the body was cool to the touch, meaning he died about three or four hours earlier, but it was a warm night, so the whole thing was fairly inexact.”
“So the best guesstimate at the scene was time of death between one thirty and two thirty a.m.”
“Correct. The medical examiner apparently wasn’t comfortable with that degree of exactitude, so she gave it as her opinion the deceased was killed sometime between ten p.m. and four a.m.”
“Meaning Jimmy could’ve killed him before he went to Atlantic City.”
“If the earlier time holds. Just one more thing we have to fight through.”
“Anything unusual turn up in the autopsy?”
“Nothing. No drugs, no alcohol, nothing amiss. He was killed with a twenty-two target pistol, a Ruger Mark II, three shots to the back of the head.”
“Sounds deliberate, not a bungled robbery or carjacking. Anything going down in la cosa nostra? Somebody unhappy with Tommy?”
“Nothing happening along those lines at all. Carlo has things going the way he likes them, quiet and businesslike. As far as I know there was no contract out on Tommy.”
“What do the cops have on Jimmy?”
“Well, among other things, there was that gun shop heist about two years ago. The cops pulled in a kid named Phil Salerno and sent him away for a while. The cops knew Salerno was one of Jimmy’s associates, but they couldn’t get him to put the finger on Jimmy.”
“Loyalty’s a beautiful thing.”
“It is indeed,” Sammy agreed. “In any event, they never found the guns, but they have always believed Jimmy had something to do with the gun shop burglary. So when one of the stolen guns turns up as the murder weapon, and the victim is one of Jimmy’s associates, the cops assume there was a falling out. They put two and two together and got it wrong.”
“There’s always that possibility,” I conceded. “Anything else?”
“Jimmy’s prints were found on the driver’s side door. Plus a palm print on the window sill, like he was standing there talking and casually put his hand in the open window.”
“Left hand?”
“Left hand.”
“Just as a right handed shooter would be standing if he had a gun behind Tommy’s left ear. Jimmy’s not left handed, by any chance?”
“No he’s not, not that that would matter to the cops. To them, a print’s a print, and Jimmy’s prints are all over that car, why wouldn’t they be? They were friends, business associates. They went places together.”
“When was the car washed last, if you know?”
“I understand Tommy had it washed every Wednesday. He loved that car. He always said he’d never drive anything but a Lincoln.”
“Had it been washed the Wednesday before he died?”
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