Fatal Deception

by Russell Blake

  “Well?”

  “I’m prepared to answer questions about your first two killings, presuming you agree that all the crimes will be prosecuted as state crimes, not federal,” Gunter said.

  “What about your attorney?”

  “I’ve reconsidered. So what about state versus federal?”

  “Assuming you confess to the murders, that’s how we’ll play it.”

  “Fine. Ask away.”

  Ron cleared his throat. “Did you murder Connie Vance?”

  “That’s the first girl, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Gunter nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to make a statement about the society we live in, and that is the medium I chose to make it with.”

  “By torturing and butchering an innocent woman?”

  “When tens of thousands of innocents are killed by American bombs, is that not much the same thing? Or do you make a distinction between those innocents and this one? If so, why?”

  “It’s not the same at all, and we both know it.”

  “If you believe that, you’re part of the problem. I had given you more credit than that,” Gunter said.

  “Describe the video,” Ron demanded, holding his temper.

  Gunter spent the next three minutes describing the footage in excruciating detail. When he was done, Ron nodded again. “Did you murder the second victim, Cindy Kerrick?”

  “Was that her name? Huh. I knew her as Dusty. A particularly unctuous bit of work.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “Of course I did. Good Lord, you’re dim. Is this really necessary? I’m quite sure you’ll find enough evidence for even your kind to piece it together.”

  “Then you admit it.”

  “I just did, didn’t I?”

  “Why the church? Describe the scene,” Ron instructed.

  Gunter rolled his eyes. “I put her corpse on the altar. Drew a pentagram with her blood. Positioned her head in the rafters so it was staring down at her in judgment.” Gunter smiled, and the effect was ghastly. “Rather nice composition, if I say so myself.”

  “What’s the significance? Are you a Satan worshiper?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of ironic juxtaposition? The power of symbolism?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Gunter launched into a long, rambling monologue on the brutalizing effect of groupthink and consensus belief, and finished with a tirade against the mainstream media and the deadening effect of postmodernism and moral relativism.

  When he was done, Ron sat back. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” he said.

  “Somebody has to.”

  “Been mulling it over for a long time, have you?” Ron asked. “You were never tempted to make a film before these?”

  Gunter laughed. “Why, Detective, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were trying to trick me into confessing to more crimes. Tsk-tsk. Don’t be greedy, sweetie. Eat your pudding like a good little boy and say thank you.”

  Ron’s expression didn’t change. “Let’s talk about the third victim. Dakota Reed.”

  “I already told you, that wasn’t my work. I’ve never met the woman, much less seen the vid.”

  “It was identical to your other pieces.”

  “Derivative tripe by a poseur. Life imitates real art.” Gunter shrugged. “Believe what you like. If you were stupid enough to be taken in by a faker, that’s not my fault.”

  Ron swallowed back a sharp retort. “Do you have an alibi?”

  “What night was it again?”

  Ron took a deep breath. “Wednesday.”

  “Ah, well, yes, I do. That night I was out on the town, and I met a positively gorgeous fellow who wanted a walk on my wild side. We were together until the sun came up, among other things.”

  “You have a name for this Adonis, I presume?” Ben asked.

  Gunter waved the question away. “Names are unimportant when romance is in the air. But I seem to remember it was Tom. Real straightlaced, nothing a bit girly about him.”

  “You can probably appreciate that a mystery man named Tom isn’t an alibi. Where did you meet him? What’s his contact info?” Ben pressed.

  “At a watering hole where like-minded boys get into trouble. The End Up. Down in the Village, near Hudson and Charles. As to his contact info, I’m afraid I don’t have it on me.” Gunter rattled his cuffs.

  “Last name?” Ron asked.

  Gunter shook his head. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” He thought for a moment. “I do recall I might have snuck one of his cards out of his wallet, though. It’s all a little foggy. We were pretty wrecked that night.”

  “And where would that card be?”

  “Somewhere in my flat, of course.” Gunter shrugged. “Does it really matter?”

  “Not at this point,” Ron agreed, and stood. “Anything more to add?”

  “I could use some moisturizing cream for my hands.” Gunter giggled. “It puts the lotion…”

  Ron and Ben exited the room, leaving Gunter for the uniforms to escort back to a holding cell. Ron’s expression was stormy, and Ben elbowed him lightly.

  “Relax. Sick bastard’s just F-ing with you, trying to get under your skin,” the younger man said.

  “I don’t know. Why concoct that entire story?”

  “Because he’s bored, and he’s pissed you caught him. Remember he considers himself to be a big brain, and all of us, peons. You can see he’s still puzzled about how the likes of us peasants could have possibly found him out. So he decides to send you on a wild-goose chase for his private amusement.”

  Ron’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. But it deserves a follow-up.”

  “Techs are still at his apartment. Want me to call over there?”

  Ron shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I was going to swing by anyway.”

  Larraby turned the corner. “There you are!”

  “Captain?” Ron said.

  “The desk told me you’re interrogating the prisoner?”

  Ron nodded. “It’s my case, isn’t it?”

  “Why? I thought we had enough to hang him.”

  “I got a confession out of him, that’s why.”

  Larraby’s mouth dropped open. “You did?”

  “For the first two, anyway. He denies he killed the third victim. I’m going to follow up on his alibi.”

  Larraby frowned. “We’ve got him cold. Doesn’t matter whether he admits to the last one or not. He’s toast.”

  “Yes, but there’s a slim chance he’s telling the truth.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “Not much of one. I think he’s messing with Ron’s head.”

  Ron shot Ben a glare. “If you gentlemen are done, I was just leaving.”

  Ron walked away. The captain and Ben watched him depart, the only sound in the empty corridor the thump of his heels on the linoleum floor as he made his way to the security desk.

  Chapter 44

  Ron called Tess on the cab ride to Gunter’s flat and was happy when she answered her cell.

  “Hi, Tess. Ron. Sorry I’ve been so swamped.”

  “I just saw a news report – you captured the Rose Killer?”

  “Yes. Which is why I’ve been out of pocket. Sometimes a case heats up unexpectedly like this one did, and you have to hit the afterburners and drop everything else.”

  “Oh, I understand. It said it’s some guy named Gunter?”

  “Yes. Connected to the sex parties. He’s an art dealer down by the Bowery.” Ron paused. “Did Dakota have any connection to the art scene?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “No friends who were involved? I’d think that would be a natural for a dancer. Traveling in the same circles…”

  “Nope. I mean, anything’s possible. It’s obvious I knew less than I thought about her, based on the drugs and the pregnancy.” Tess hesitated. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

&
nbsp; “Well, I’m still following up on a few loose ends.” Ron pointed to the right and the taxi driver pulled over. “What are you up to this evening? You eaten dinner yet?” Ron tried.

  “No.”

  “Want to hook up and grab a bite? My schedule’s abruptly opened up…”

  “What time were you thinking?”

  “Couple of hours or so.”

  “That would work,” Tess said.

  Ron wondered why her tone was so distant. “Is everything okay?”

  “I guess so. I’m just…I’m confused. I don’t know how to feel. I mean, you caught him, which is wonderful, but that he’s a complete stranger…I was so sure Jeremy was involved.”

  “Why don’t I pour booze down your throat, force you to eat some fancy food, and I can tell you all about it?”

  Her voice softened. “That’s the best offer I’ve had in a long time, Ron. You’re on.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m done, okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  Ron disconnected, paid the driver, and made his way to Gunter’s building, where the forensics van and two police cars were parked at the curb. Ron nodded to one of the cops standing on the stoop drinking coffee and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Two more uniforms bookended Gunter’s door, and their conversation hushed as he drew near.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” Ron said as he brushed past them.

  “Detective.”

  The techs were in the bedroom, and the film of dust on the living room surfaces told him that they were done in that area. He called to them as he neared. “You happen to see a business card lying around?”

  A woman in her late twenties glanced up from where she was working with a camera, documenting the bedroom’s contents while her partner dusted for prints. “A few. Anything specific you’re looking for?”

  “Someone named Tom.”

  The tech gave him an odd look and then snapped her fingers. “That actually rings a bell. There’s one in a small bundle on the desk out there, by the phone. Top one, I believe.”

  “Mind if I look it over?”

  “We’re finished in there. Knock yourself out.”

  Ron moved to the desk and found the cards bundled with a rubber band. The top one was Tom Jenkowitz, an insurance executive who worked for one of the largest companies in the country. Ron checked the time and then dialed the cell number. A male voice answered a moment later.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom Jenkowitz?”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “My name’s Detective Ron Stanford, with NYPD.”

  “Okay…”

  “I need to ask you a few questions about a case I’m working, but I need to do it in person. Are you available for a few minutes?”

  “I’m still at my office. Do you know where it is?”

  “I have the address. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

  “I’ll leave your name with security. Ron Stanford, was that right?”

  “Correct.”

  Ron hung up and waved at the techs. “Thank you, ladies. I’m out of here.”

  “We’ll be working for another four hours or so. Call if you need anything else.”

  “You got it.”

  Tom’s building was a steel and glass tower that jutted into the darkening sky like a moneyed phallus. Ron showed his badge to security, who called to notify Tom of Ron’s arrival, and rode the elevator up to his floor, where a cleaning crew was working, its vacuum howling from between cubicles that stretched from one end of the space to another. A tall man in blue suit trousers and a blindingly white dress shirt greeted him with a professional smile.

  “Detective Stanford? Tom,” he announced, extending his hand. Ron shook and flipped out his badge so Tom could see it.

  “Is there anyplace quiet we can chat?” Ron asked.

  “Sure. One of the meeting rooms. This way.”

  Ron followed him back to a conference room with an oblong table and twelve chairs. Tom sat down and waited until Ron had joined him before leaning forward. “You mentioned you’re investigating a case?”

  “Yes. That’s correct. A homicide.”

  The color drained from Tom’s tanned face. “A homicide?”

  “Yes. Oh, don’t worry. You’re not a suspect. I’m just tying up some loose ends.”

  Tom looked relieved. “How can I help you?”

  Ron studied Tom for a long beat. “There’s no delicate way to ask this, so I’ll just ask. Wednesday night, a week ago. Where were you?”

  “Wednesday?” Tom’s eyes searched the empty tabletop. “I…I have to think about that. I think I was at home, or maybe out with clients.”

  “Take your time.”

  Tom folded his hands, and the glint of a gold band on his ring finger caught the light. “I honestly don’t…oh, wait. I was out drinking with friends. Of course. Why?”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, we hit a lot of places. What time?”

  “Until closing time.”

  “Hmm. It’s a little bit fuzzy…I’m sorry, Detective, we drank a lot.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase. A man, Gunter Ausberg, said he was with you until dawn.” Ron watched Tom’s face for a reaction. “Having sex.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Tom said, his expression a combination of indignation and surprise. “He’s lying. I don’t know any Gunter.”

  “He’s blond. Thirty-seven. His place is in the West Village. Second floor…”

  “Detective, there’s obviously been a mistake. I’m married. I have a daughter.”

  “It’s possible that I grabbed the wrong card,” Ron conceded.

  “I’m not sure what this is all about, but you’ve got the wrong guy.” Tom looked at his watch. “Does that do it for us?”

  Ron nodded. “So for the record, you were not with this Gunter at his apartment until dawn last Wednesday?”

  “I was not.”

  “Have you ever been to the End Up?”

  “Is that a punch line to a bad joke?”

  Ron shifted gears. “Would you like to see a photo of him, just to make sure?”

  “I’d remember something like that, wouldn’t you?” Tom snapped.

  “Look, Tom. It’s none of my business what people do in the privacy of their bedrooms, you know? And anything you say to me is confidential.”

  “That’s reassuring to know, but it doesn’t change anything.”

  Ron stood. “Of course. Thanks for taking the time.” Ron paused. “I wonder how he got your card?”

  Tom’s professional smile snapped back into place. “I hand them out like candy. In the insurance game, it’s all about numbers. He could have gotten it anywhere.”

  Ron made his way back downstairs and called Larraby on the way out of the building. “I’m headed home. I checked Gunter’s alibi, and it doesn’t hold water.”

  “So Ben was right. Who knew psychos lie? Listen, Ron, you did a great job. Go have a celebratory drink. You more than deserve it.”

  “I was going to come back in and grill Gunter again, hang him with his story.”

  “That can wait. You’re running on empty. Do it tomorrow. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Ron agreed and signed off. His next call was to Tess. “I’m on my way home. Give me some time to clean up, okay?”

  “An hour?”

  “That would be great.”

  “I’ll ride over.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Chapter 45

  Tess toted her bike to the lobby and smiled at the doorman, who swung the door wide and held it open for her. On the sidewalk, she adjusted the backpack into which she’d put a one-piece black dress and pair of heels so she would be presentable at any restaurant, and looked up and down the sidewalk, which was thick with humanity. She pushed the bicycle to the curb and snapped her left shoe into its pedal clip, and then pushed into the stream of cars jockeying for advantage on the crowded street.

  Other bicyclists were riding in b
oth directions, New York a city where in most weather thousands would bike, day or night. As a messenger she’d endured the harsh winters, with their biting cold and the treacherous black ice on slick pavement, and she was glad that part of her existence was over. One thing she wouldn’t miss about no longer being a bike messenger was the winter.

  She twisted to look over her shoulder so she could cut over and hook a left, and registered a hulking black shape barreling down on her. Its headlights nearly blinded her as she veered away. She sensed rather than saw the car swerve toward her, and when she could hear the big motor only feet behind her, she unclipped from the pedals and threw herself to her right, into a delivery zone where a van signaling it was going to pull out would provide cover. Tess landed hard and tried to roll, and winced as the crash of her Trek hybrid smashing against the grill of the vehicle sounded from behind her.

  A glimpse of her bike flipping through the air ended with horns honking and people yelling, and then the car was past her and roaring off. She looked up from the street and spied it as it turned the corner – a seventies sedan, boxy and square, black or dark blue.

  “You okay?” a male voice with a Spanish accent called to her. She turned to where a man in his forties, a red scarf around his neck and round steel spectacles perched on his nose, stood a few steps away with a look of shock, eyeing her with concern.

  “Huh? Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, and struggled to stand, her clip shoes not cooperating. The man helped her to her feet.

  “I saw the whole thing. He almost killed you. Completely his fault,” the man said.

  “No doubt.”

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He looked down the street at where her bike was lying, mangled into a metal pretzel. “That doesn’t look so good.”

  “Yeah, I think it’s seen its last days,” she agreed.

  The man moved to the bike and lifted it. The wheels were bent, and the frame was squashed and fractured in one spot. He carried it back to Tess, who was avoiding the rush of traffic, and stopped in front of her with it. “You want me to call someone?”

  Tess took the bike remains and shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Your arm’s bleeding.”

  “Crap. I scraped it,” she said, glancing down at her elbow, where a thin red stream was running down her forearm.