'The big difference for me,' continued Jack, 'is the head thing. We're pretty certain BRK took trophies from his victims and we're fairly sure these amounted only to the left hand of the women he murdered.'
Fernandez looked down and wriggled the fingers of her left hand, grateful to see all the joints working and intact, including the one where her wedding ring had almost refused to come off despite her yanking at it like a cowboy on the back of a bronco.
Jack held up his own hand, as he finished his point. 'We can't prove the significance of this, but maybe it's because the left hand is somehow more representative of female fidelity; after all, it's the wedding-ring hand.' He fingered the gold band that encircled his own finger and for a fleeting second thought of Nancy, falling confetti and the day they had married almost eleven years earlier. 'Then again, it may be something not so romantic. The left hand may play a part in his life because he or a woman he once loved had a disfigured left hand. We just don't know, so we shouldn't jump to conclusions. That said, heads are something entirely new. He's removed heads from victims before, but never kept them for any reason, not even as trophies.'
'But these are not really trophies,' said Massimo, thoughtfully. 'He had no intention of keeping these body parts. Surely it was more an egotistical action, in keeping with the note he sent? It seems more like a show of strength to me, like he was looking to make sure he got our attention.'
Jack wasn't so sure. 'There's a lot of psychological debate about what a trophy actually is. Some experts say that just taking anything away from the crime scene, even a button or tiny piece of jewellery, makes it a trophy. It's a prize, something the killer has won in their own emotional and sexual battle to take a life and they keep it as a reminder of the elation they felt. There's now widespread evidence of serial killers taking stuff from their victims and not keeping it for very long. Often, they "gift" it elsewhere; they pass stuff on to charity shops or give it to a family friend or neighbour. It's a repulsive thought, but they clearly get a kick out of putting part of a brutal crime scene into the hands of innocents.'
'Also, they grow bored with it,' added Howie. 'Some of them are like teenagers buying their first pornographic magazine. The first time, they're afraid and excited and it takes all their courage to go shop for it. Then they buy regularly and amass a collection; eventually they start throwing old mags out and need much harder stuff to light their fire.'
'Your line of expertise?' whispered Fernandez, a little too loudly for only Howie to hear.
'Back to the point,' said Jack, rescuing his buddy. 'I buy the egotist angles, that's certainly all over the note, but not the idea that this guy is after publicity. He's not a headline hunter. That theory would stand up if he'd sent the heads to the press, but he didn't, he deliberately sent them to law enforcement offices, so it's much more like he's throwing down a challenge to us.'
'We all need to spend a lot more time on the note,' added Massimo. 'As Jack said, we will be sending a copy over to you, and I'm sure we'll be having a much longer discussion about this.' He turned his left wrist to check his watch and couldn't help thinking of the saw cut across the same joint on Cristina Barbuggiani. 'As time is moving on, let's briefly discuss item number four, the package that contained the head that I am told is of Sarah Kearney, one of BRK's earliest – maybe even first – victims.'
'Okay,' said Howie, unfastening his shirt cuffs and rolling up his sleeves in a businesslike manner. 'I don't want to get everyone too excited, but we've got some good news. We've got a healthy trail on the delivery of the package. It was shipped through Myrtle International by a company called UMail2 Anywhere. Turns out they're a very small courier company, just local to Myrtle Beach, and we've found who the pick-up boy was.'
'Did he get a good look at the customer?' asked Massimo, trying to hold back a surge of hope. A description of the killer would be a real breakthrough.
'We think so,' said Howie. 'It's a guy called Stan Mossman. Not at work today, seems he's got a pile of time off, days worked in-lieu, that sort of thing. He's thought to be partying out of state with friends. We don't know where, or we'd already have pulled him in. We've got someone from the local office out on his patch and hot on his heels, so hopefully we'll interview him tomorrow when he's due back.'
'Where was the pick-up?' asked Jack.
'Out at the Days Inn,' answered Fernandez. 'The Grand Strand on South Ocean Boulevard. Cheap and cheerful, just a spit from the airport.'
'That figures,' said Jack. 'I put my money on our killer catching a flight from Myrtle within as short a time as possible from the moment that he handed over that package to Mossman.'
'Va bene,' said Massimo, enthusiastically. 'This could be the most valuable thing we have. If you get a photo-fit together then we must talk quickly about issuing it in both our countries. Dealing with the scarafaggi will be bearable if they can help save the life of his next potential victim.'
Jack was the only one not looking optimistic. Something just wasn't right. It's such a loose end; BRK would never leave such a loose end.
And then he realized what it was.
'Howie, are you one hundred per cent sure your witness – this Stan guy – is out of state having fun, and he's not already dead and buried somewhere?'
'Shit!' said Howie, suddenly seeing the grim possibility. 'You're thinking BRK whacked him before he caught his plane?'
'That's absolutely what I'm thinking,' confirmed Jack. 'When was our man Stan's last day at work?'
Fernandez looked down at her notes. 'July first. The date we got the package posted to us. No one's seen him since then.'
42
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany The warm house lights and the dinner-table laughter from La Casa Strada spilled across the dark and silent hills of the Val D'Orcia as Nancy King carried out her final duties of the day. The restaurant had been full for the evening but now there were only a few guests still at their white-linen tables, drinking coffee and sipping brandy. For Nancy, this was one of the magical moments of running the restaurant. She loved to see a room full of happy guests, relaxing at her beautifully laid tables, bursting from the satisfaction of her food. The room hummed with conversations about which part of Europe someone planned to go to next, and whether or not Florence was really worth a day visit out of their schedule.
Paolo had let the rest of the kitchen staff go home and only Giuseppe remained, stacking pudding plates in the giant dishwasher that Jack joked was large enough to wash an average car. Paolo told him that when he had washed down the floors, he could go as well.
'Mrs King, would you care to join me for a glass of wine outside on the terrace, for our little talk?' asked Paolo, with over-dramatic graciousness. He said the same words every night and Nancy always replied with the same pat answer and a theatrical nod of her head. 'That would be most delightful, Signore Balze, thank you for asking me.'
'Take a table, please, I'll be out in a moment,' said Paolo.
Nancy left him and walked through the kitchen door into the private garden outside. The night was alive with the pungent smell of roses and the incessant chirp of crickets. She'd heard somewhere that the insects could be roasted, or even baked into brownies, but she'd never managed to catch one, let alone pondered what to do with it gastronomically.
Suddenly, the door to the kitchen burst open. 'Surprise!' shouted Paolo, standing shoulder to shoulder with Giuseppe, who was holding a small cake with a plastic Statue of Liberty stuck in its middle and a lit birthday candle taped to Liberty's torch.
'Born in the USA,' they sang together, badly.
'Happy American Independence Day, Mrs King,' said Giuseppe. 'Please to blow out the candle and make the wish.'
'We didn't know the words to your national anthem,' explained Paolo, 'but we do know some Bruce Springsteen, yes, Giuseppe?'
Nancy applauded them both and blew out the candle. 'Thank you. Thank you so much,' she said, feeling genuinely touched by what they'd done.
'Get a
knife,' Paolo instructed the kitchen boy. 'We will have a small piece with our drink, and you too, Giuseppe.'
'Wait a minute,' said Nancy. 'Before you cut it, let me get my camera from upstairs. I have to take a picture to show Jack what you made.'
'Actually, it is what Gio made,' corrected Paolo, referring to their pastry chef, as she hurried back to the house for her Sony Cybershot. 'He is sorry he could not stay, but his baby, it is sick back home.'
Nancy was still smiling as she bounded up the stairs. She slowed down to a quiet stride as she stepped past Zack's door, and then flicked on a light and entered her own bedroom.
What she saw next sucked the breath from her lungs.
Standing by her dressing table, a flashlight in one hand, and something heavy, square and black in the other, was a large masked man.
43
Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York The digital clocks in Spider's empty bedroom set off a series of technological events of greater and lesser importance. Lights downstairs in the lounge and kitchen turn off. Softer lighting upstairs in the en-suite bathroom comes on, security lights outside continue to shine brightly, and downstairs the sound-proofed basement is plunged into absolute darkness.
Lu Zagalsky had been terrified the first time the lights had gone out. Her heart had tried to crack through her ribcage and make a run for it. The darkness seemed alive with some slithering, satanic shape that somehow felt out her face and tried to smother her, tried to suck and swallow her into the endless blackness. Now, though, she's almost grateful for the dark. The pain from her broken nose is nearly bearable, but her eyes feel as though they've had acid poured in them. Lu's thirst is ferocious. There isn't anything on earth she wouldn't do for a single glass of water. She'd heard somewhere that you could survive a long time without food, but you still had to have water. What she didn't know of course was that one day she would get to find out first hand exactly how long that survival would be. Lu is comforted by the fact that she's almost completely got over the hunger pains that were so severe for the first day after he left her. Now, she isn't hungry at all. Sadly, it's nothing she should be pleased with. After two days without food, sensors in either the gastrointestinal tract or in the mesenteric veins that drain the gut, send signals to the brain killing off the hunger pains and shutting down the digestive system. Lu's body is starting to do what will probably be irreparable damage to itself. It is starting to eat itself.
The lights in the basement come on again and her eyes burn with pain as she blinks into the brightness above her head. Upstairs, another digital clock triggers another device. A recording machine is activated.
The cameras around her start to pan, zoom and focus.
A digital hard drive whirrs into action to capture what Spider is sure will be the last hours of Lu Zagalsky's life.
44
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Nancy King ducked as the stranger threw the flashlight at her. It missed, shattering into several pieces as it crashed into the wall behind her head. She screamed as he pushed his way past her and thundered down the stairs and out into the dimly lit garden.
'Paolo! Giuseppe, help!' she shouted from the bedroom window. 'Stop him! Stop him!'
Paolo whirled around from the table where he was slicing up the cake, just in time to see the heavy-set figure dressed in black burst into the garden area.
The intruder spotted the two men, and saw the knife in Paolo's hand. He stopped so quickly that he slipped on the damp grass, then, scrambling to his feet, ran straight into the back door of the kitchen. For one moment Paolo thought about throwing the knife at him, but then dropped it and gave chase.
The masked man bolted from the kitchen, through the restaurant and down the hotel's narrow corridors, barging guests aside, as they abandoned the last of their drinks to see what all the commotion was. The corridors automatically guided him to reception, where Maria made a brave attempt to hold him up by raising a chair in front of him to block his way. Grabbing the other end, he pushed her into the wall and escaped through the front door as she slumped to the ground like a rag doll.
Maria was crying in pain and holding her stomach by the time Paolo appeared in reception. He had no choice but to give up the chase and check she was all right. 'Are you okay? Stay still, Maria, show me what hurts.'
'My stomach,' she said. 'My stomach and my ribs, they hurt like crazy. What happened?'
Giuseppe and Nancy arrived seconds later, followed by several guests.
'It's okay, folks. Please don't be alarmed,' said Nancy, flapping her hands at them. 'We seem to have had a nasty incident but it's all over now. Please go back to the dining room and allow us to sort things out here. Thanks for your help.' She shut the connecting door from the reception to the rest of the hotel and joined the others as they helped Maria to her feet.
'Are you all right, Maria? Did he hurt you?' asked Nancy.
'I am okay, Mrs King, I think,' said the receptionist, still tearful. 'I picked up that chair to try to stop him with it, but he, he just knock me over and run away.'
'Sit down,' said Paolo. 'Have a drink of water, and get your breath back.'
Giuseppe grabbed a carafe of water from behind the reception desk and poured a glass.
Nancy stood for a moment biting her nails, taking stock of what had happened. It was at times like this that she missed having Jack around. Paolo and Giuseppe had been wonderful in chasing the intruder off, but if Jack had been here, well, by now the guy would have been wishing he'd picked any other hotel in Italy to burgle.
'Shall I call the police, or will you call Signor King?' asked Paolo.
'Ring the Polizia or the carabinieri,' answered Nancy. 'Jack has bigger things to worry about; I don't want to bother him with something like this.'
Paolo made the call and talked for so long that Nancy thought he'd discussed the case with every member of staff at the station. Maria gradually recovered and insisted there was nothing wrong with her other than some bruising to her tummy. She took consolation from the fact that it would be a terrific story to tell on television when she got to run for Miss Italy. Nancy thanked all of them for their efforts and promised that she wouldn't forget their support when it came to pay-packet time.
Giuseppe offered to run Maria home in his car and as they left Nancy wondered whether she could detect the first flicker of something more than just friendship between the two. Paolo volunteered to stay the night when he found out that the police couldn't send anyone until the following morning, but Nancy wouldn't hear of it. Nevertheless, he did a final check around the hotel before he left on his scooter, its rusted exhaust making such a noise that it set off dogs barking at a farmhouse almost half a mile away.
Nancy went upstairs and got ready for bed. She scrubbed her teeth and put paste out for Jack, forgetting for a second that he wasn't there. Then she went in Zack's room and scooped up her sleeping toddler in her arms. She carried him into her darkened bedroom and laid him down gently in the cool bed. She was doing it partly to make sure he was safe, but also, if she were honest, because she needed the comfort of him next to her.
When it started to rain heavily Nancy remembered the beautiful Independence Day cake that was still out in the garden, getting ruined. It would have to go to waste. There was no way she was getting out of bed until the room was filled with daylight and the hotel was once more alive with the sound of voices she trusted.
Downstairs, a key turned quietly in the front-door lock. Recent arrival Terry McLeod was trying as hard as possible to make sure that he didn't wake anyone.
PART FIVE
Thursday, 5 July
45
Hotel Grand Plaza, Rome It was still the dead of night when Jack woke, dripping with sweat and struggling to breathe. The latest nightmare was the most personal and most intense he'd ever experienced.
He'd fallen asleep around midnight and thought he might get a decent rest. How wrong he had been.
Soon his sleep had tricked him back into the basement,
where the white-coated ME was moving as mysteriously as usual, but everything else seemed somehow more intense. The blood was running faster from the pipes on the black walls, spilling on to the floor, and there in the puddles forming around his feet were strange shapes, like Rorschach's ink blots. In them, the faces of BRK's victims had appeared, one by one, and slowly morphed into each other, until finally Jack was left staring at the face of Cristina Barbuggiani. She was trying to mouth something to him but he couldn't hear her. For a second, her young fingers stretched out from the blood and implored him to grab her and save her. Then, in the instant that he touched her, her flesh melted and the hand became skeletonized and snapped off.
Jack wiped the sweat from his face and tried to remember what else he'd dreamt. He recalled a mixture of male and female voices shouting: 'IT'S YOUR FAULT!' He had hung on to the gurney for fear that his legs would give way beneath him as his head filled with voices.
'What they say is right. You're a failure, King, a burnout.'
'Think how many girls have died, because you've been unable to save them.'
'Think! Is it five, ten, fifteen, twenty or more?'
Jack had clung to the body on the steel gurney as the ME raised the bone saw. He had to save this one, there must be no more killing.
The blade came closer to the body on the gurney, its teeth seeking more innocent flesh and bone. Jack put his hand out towards the ME, trying to force the blade back, but as he did so, he stumbled. Falling into the pool of blood, he got a clear view of the face of the victim on the steel trolley.
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