Fatal Deception

by Russell Blake

  “The meaning of this is we need to ask you some questions, and we can either do it here or at the station,” Ron growled. “Are you Mr. Stibling?”

  “That’s right. And you are?”

  “Detective Ron Stanford. Homicide.”

  “Homicide?” Stibling repeated. He blinked once – his only visible reaction.

  “That’s correct. Do you want to do this here in the hallway, where your neighbors can hear it, or inside? Your choice.”

  Stibling stepped aside so Ron and Ben could enter. He closed the door behind them and led them through a palatial living room to an office that was easily the size of Ron’s entire apartment. Stibling took a seat behind an antique desk and motioned for them to sit.

  “Why is homicide disturbing me at home?”

  “Investigating a murder,” Ron countered. “You had a party at your Connecticut home Friday a week ago.”

  Stibling refused to be rattled. “Really? That’s out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Is there a law against having parties?”

  “One of your paid entertainers turned up dead. Hacked to pieces. Time of death was that night.”

  “One of my…now see here, young man–”

  Ron cut him off. “Mr. Stibling, you seem to be under the misapprehension that you call the shots. You do not. You hired a young woman for your party – one of several – and she was killed while at your home, or shortly thereafter.”

  Stibling swallowed hard. “I think it’s time to bid you good day and consult with my attorney.”

  “Sure, if you like. You might want to mention to him that I have an eyewitness who puts you with her that night at your home, who will swear to it in court. And I can’t guarantee that any of the reporters snooping around the case don’t break your involvement in the matter. I mean, I’m sure you don’t care if all the lurid details of your sex parties wind up as front-page fodder, nor your part in the most horrifying serial killings in recent memory.” Ron made to stand.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The woman in question was the second victim of the Rose Killer. You knew her as Dusty, assuming you asked her name at all.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.” Stibling considered Ron like he was a specimen on a lab slide. “Detective…”

  “Stanford.”

  “Detective Stanford, I have many entertainers at my little soirees, which are private, and none of your, or the public’s, business. I can assure you I would sue you and the department if any hint of impropriety was leaked in an effort to pressure me.”

  “That’s good to know. And I can assure you that the last place the woman who was chopped to pieces on tape was seen was in your house, the night she died. That’s fact. So are the eyewitness accounts of what went on. If you want to play hardball, that’s fine. Lawyer up, we’ll do this the hard way, and you can answer the press’s questions about your personal life while in the public eye. Or you can cooperate and help us out, in which case there’s no need for any escalation. You’re a smart man. Which would you prefer?”

  Stibling’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not accustomed to people threatening me in my own home.”

  “I’m not accustomed to being stonewalled by a possible material witness.”

  The two men stared at each other like combatants in a ring, and then Stibling nodded. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, Detective. Let’s start over, shall we? You say this young lady was slain the night of the party. It was over at midnight and the guests and entertainers gone. Can you be more specific about when she was killed? I suspect if it was before that, you’d have a warrant rather than empty threats.”

  “Time of death was after that. Where were you from midnight to the following morning?”

  “Why, Detective Stanford, where anyone of my age would be. Asleep in bed.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “You have a very high opinion of my stamina, which, alas, isn’t accurate.” Stibling smiled. “I had some housekeeping staff cleaning up downstairs for an hour or so. I’m sure one of them can vouch for my whereabouts. As could my security force.”

  “What about Dusty?”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Twenty-six. Full-sleeve tattoos. Dyed black hair. A looker.”

  “Ah, well, the tattoos are the distinctive element. I recall the young lady.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “That’s a bit vaguer, I’m afraid. Last I saw her she was with three men.”

  “Three men?” Ron asked, leaning forward. “What were they doing, and who are they?”

  “They might have been doing drugs. Not that I condone that sort of thing at my events, but it’s hard to stop adults from indulging…”

  “We’re not vice cops, Mr. Stibling. Who were these men?”

  “One of them was the performance artist. Rather well known in certain avant-garde circles. Hitoshi Sato. A bit worse for wear after his act. I got the impression that he was just leaving – as I said, he might have been killing the pain from his performance.”

  Ben jotted down the name. “Why would he be in pain?”

  “He specializes in unusual performance art. Sometimes he hurts himself.”

  “Who else?”

  “Gunter Ausberg. He’s a fixture of the New York contemporary art scene. Owns a gallery down by the Bowery. He organizes events as a sideline.”

  “And the third?”

  “I don’t know his name. A greasy Latin type. Pedro, Paulo, something like that. I heard him mentioned in passing.”

  “What does he do?” Ben asked.

  “I get the impression he was in charge of talent acquisition for Gunter.”

  “Describe exactly what you saw, Mr. Stibling.”

  “The three of them were in the foyer, with this young lady. I remember because of the hair and tattoos. They might have been snorting lines. I’m afraid it’s a bit fuzzy – too much good Scotch that night.”

  “That’s it?” Ron demanded.

  “I’m afraid so. As I said, I was tired and going up to my room, making a last pass. Everyone else had left other than the cleaning crew.”

  “You have a crew that works at midnight?” Ron asked skeptically.

  “Detective, I don’t believe in procrastination. I want to wake up to my home spick and span. I can give you the name of my Connecticut housekeeper if you wish to question her. As I said, I’m sure she noted that I went upstairs.”

  “Your story is that Dusty left with the men?”

  “Detective Stanford, I have no story. You asked me when I last saw her. My answer is that the last time I saw her she was with them. Whether she was waiting for a lift or was going to catch a ride with one or all of them, I don’t know. I wasn’t mingling, if you get my drift.”

  Half an hour later, Ron and Ben were back in the elevator, descending to the ground level.

  “Bastard’s way too slick,” Ben said.

  “That’s how the mega-rich are.”

  “I wouldn’t know. What do you think?”

  “I’m sure if we talk to his housekeeper, she’ll back his story. But whether he snuck out later, we’ll never know.”

  “Does he strike you as a serial?” Ben asked. “I don’t have as much experience as you with that animal.”

  “He’s too old, I’d think, but you never know. I’d have thought he was too old for the sex parties, too.”

  “What with Viagra these days…”

  The door opened and they stepped from the elevator. The doorman glowered at them resentfully from his stool by the front entrance. They ignored him and walked to the car. Ron slid into the passenger seat and eyed his watch.

  “Call in Sato and Ausberg and let’s see what we can find out,” Ron said, and then his phone rang. Amy’s voice greeted him when he answered.

  “We have a hair,” she said.

  “What? Where?”

  “From the debris on the seco
nd victim. Took forever to sift through it all. We missed it the first time. It’s a tiny piece, really no more than a fragment, but it’s a hair and includes the follicle – likely pubic based on the texture. I already submitted it to the DNA database to see if we get a hit.”

  “That’s great. What are the odds it’s not from the site?”

  “Even money, given how dirty the place was. If it matches to a church construction worker, there’s your answer.”

  “How long till we know?”

  “Twenty-four to forty-eight hours. More likely forty-eight.”

  “Can you speed it up?”

  “On a weekend, when there are only skeleton crews working? Not likely.”

  “Pull someone in. I’ll get whatever clearance you need.”

  “You really want this bad, don’t you?”

  “You read me like a book,” Ron said.

  “Let me see what strings I can pull.”

  “Do your best, Amy. Good catch.”

  “Let’s wait to see what the report says before we break out the bubbly.”

  Chapter 25

  When Ron and Ben got back to the precinct, the homicide floor was eerily quiet, with only a few detectives working the weekend beat. Ben made a beeline for his computer, anxious to see what he could learn about the men Stibling had implicated in the second victim’s death. Ron went to the bathroom and then poured a couple of cups of coffee, his energy flagging from too little sleep and the adrenaline roller coaster of the last hours.

  “Anything?” Ron asked as he placed one of the cups beside Ben’s monitor.

  “It’s still searching. I’m doing an international search, too, since they’re both foreigners.”

  “Why, Ben, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were racially profiling,” Ron joked.

  “Yes, white males from Germanic countries have had it rough here, haven’t they?”

  “Damn straight.”

  The screen blinked, and a menu appeared. Ben tapped the keys and then read with rapt attention before sitting back and whistling.

  “What?” Ron asked.

  “Our boy Hitoshi Sato’s one seriously sick puppy. Look at this crap. Articles on his shows. Reads like a horror movie.” Ben read a choice few aloud, and when he was done, they stared at each other in puzzlement.

  “Who the hell would pay to see that kind of shit?” Ron asked.

  “Beats me. But he’s apparently kind of famous for being the most extreme of the extreme. He did an exhibition in Munich that wound up getting banned. Self-mutilation, sadism…I mean, what the hell… he had addicts sharing dirty needles in the gallery as a statement of the drug culture being planned genocide of the chemically dependent by the establishment. The public health department shut it down and brought charges, which were later dropped.” Ben shook his head. “And that’s just one of them. The list of hits goes on.”

  “Which fits with the whole craziness of sadism as performance art.”

  “Right. This sure sounds like the kind of guy who could make the leap from crazy-for-pay to making a statement by chopping up women, doesn’t it?” Another screen popped open, and Ben scrolled through a report before fixing Ron with a hard stare. “This is from Interpol. Sato was a suspect in a Japanese ring that was accused of producing snuff films. It never went to trial – apparently his partners were yakuza and too powerful to prosecute.”

  “Snuff films? All of that’s supposed to be urban legend. All my years on the job, I’ve never seen a genuine one,” Ron said. “Except for our boy.”

  “Apparently not. There’s a market for it in Japan among the super-rich. Says here that he was suspected of working with Japanese criminal syndicates to produce videos, but that he claimed they were just special effects and acting, designed for a particular brand of fetishist. No bodies were ever found, and without a corpus delicti, they couldn’t go forward.”

  “Hard case to prove if nobody’s dead.”

  “Here’s some notes from the lead investigator. Says he suspected underage girls from Vietnam, Cambodia, and North Korea were smuggled into Japan, trafficked as prostitutes, and when their useful lives were over, were killed on camera during a sex act – but nobody ever came forward to identify any of the actresses, so it remained an unproved theory. Sato left Japan shortly thereafter and came to the States.”

  “Great. Because there’s not enough extreme craziness to go around here.” Ron paused. “When did he arrive?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “Has he been in New York the entire time?”

  “Beats me. No known address for him.”

  “Check the hotel records. Could be he’s staying in flophouses. But we know he was just here. Maybe we’ll get a hit.”

  Ben typed in a series of commands and pressed enter, then minimized the screen and switched to another menu. He entered Gunter’s name and took a sip of coffee as he waited.

  More information popped up, and he skimmed it quickly.

  “Nothing on Gunter. Emigrated from Denmark a decade and a half ago. Green card in good standing. No warrants, not even a traffic ticket.”

  “But according to Stibling, he’s the organizer of the pervert circus. How could there be nothing against him?”

  “Could be Stibling’s lying, trying to get us to chase red herrings. Or could be Gunter baby is really clever and super-careful. Tomato, tomahto.”

  “What’s his background?”

  “University degree from Copenhagen in fine arts. Owned an art brokerage house there until he moved to New York. Not much to go on.” Ben tapped the screen. “Here’s his immigration photo.”

  Ron rolled his chair closer for a look. “Creepy looking, isn’t he?”

  “Wait until you get a gander at Sato. He looks like a carnival geek.”

  “Show me.”

  “Let me print this. It’s Gunter’s current home and gallery addresses.” Ben hit a key and the printer thrummed, and then he moved to an earlier screen and pulled up a black-and-white photo of an Asian man with spiky, unkempt hair, a nose that had been broken numerous times, and scar tissue around his eyes and cheekbones, like a losing boxer at the end of a bad career.

  “You’re right. Guy’s a freak,” Ron agreed.

  “You’d have to be, to do the kinds of things he does for a living. Seriously. Makes me think the world would be better off with dolphins running things.”

  “That’s not a hard sell. Where do I vote for the dolphins?”

  Ben laughed. “I have to admit, he kind of fits with the FBI profiler’s take. Loner, views things as symbolic, delusions of grandeur, into big gestures…”

  “And inured to pain and suffering. Has to be a frigging sociopath.”

  Ben nodded. Another window popped up on his screen, and he whistled again. “We got a hit.”

  “Yeah? Where is he?”

  “Dive down near the alphabet streets. Boarding house masquerading as a hotel.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “This shows ten days.”

  Ron pushed to his feet. “We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “I’ll call in backup. This could be our boy.”

  “10-4.”

  Chapter 26

  Ron’s phone rang as Ben brought the car around from the lot. It was Tess.

  “Hey. How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Better. I slept like a log. And I’ve got a headache.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  “I got a call from Dakota’s mom, but I was still asleep. I haven’t called her back yet.”

  “They broke the news this morning, Tess.”

  “I figured. I’ll call her later, once I’m human again.” She paused. “Any progress?”

  Ron inhaled slowly. “It will be late today or tomorrow before we have the results of the lab work. We won’t really know anything until then.”

  “Have you started interviewing her friends yet?”

  “No.
Like I said, we want to have all the forensics in place before we start asking questions, so we know exactly what to ask. Otherwise we run the risk of tainting the testimony. People will answer a question differently if they’ve had time to think about it, so we try to avoid that.” It was his turn to hesitate. “Was Dakota involved in the performance-art scene?”

  “What? No. She was strictly ballet.”

  “Was it something she was interested in, do you know?”

  “What, like people who pour milk on themselves or scream at people or whatever in a gallery? Why? Do you know any eighteen-year-olds who are into that?”

  “Not personally,” he admitted. “It was just a question.”

  “Does this have to do with the sex parties? I already told you that’s a blind alley.”

  “I know. I’m just following a different lead, is all.”

  “On one of the other victims,” Tess snapped, her voice suddenly cold.

  “We find the killer, it doesn’t really matter how, does it?”

  There was a long silence. “It does to me.” Another pause. “I’ve got to go, Ron.”

  “I’ll call later when I have a chance.”

  The line went dead, and Ron shook his head as he dialed another number. The desk sergeant of the Lower East Side precinct answered. Ron identified himself and requested a pair of plainclothes detectives to check on Gunter’s shop and apartment. If they found him, they were to bring him in for questioning after calling Ron.

  The drive to the alphabet streets took twelve minutes. When they arrived at the address, the hotel turned out to be little more than an ancient tenement that would have been condemned decades earlier if the owner hadn’t had some political sway. A cluster of filthy rooms, many with a shared bathroom at the end of a hall, the dive was a notorious shooting gallery, a distribution point for street dealers, and a last resort for the indigent and the desperate only a slim step above living on the street.