The Eleventh Victim

by Nancy Grace

  New York City

  THERE WAS NO TIME TO FEEL AND NO TIME TO WASTE. FUELED BY grim reality, Hailey went methodically to each window in the apartment and pulled down the shades. In the kitchen, she put the kettle back on the flame.

  Wherever he was, he was either watching her now or watching the exit nearly thirty floors below. She double-checked all the locks on windows and doors.

  Did it matter? Somehow, he’d managed to get in here once. He could do it again.

  A shrill whistle pierced the silence.

  Hailey instinctively placed her right hand on the grip of the gun…

  It was just the kettle.

  She left the window and crossed the stone floor to turn off the gas flame. Pulling open the kitchen drawer for a spoon, once again, the old chill went from jaw to spine and stomach down to calves and toes.

  It was there…entangled in the knives and forks and spoons.

  Something that shouldn’t, couldn’t have been there. It hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t there when she’d pulled out the last spoon before she left for work so many hours before.

  Kitchen twine. An oblong wind of it was peeking out from under the rows of silverware, some of it curled up into the utensils, all neatly in their kitchen drawer dividers like she’d arranged them.

  Hailey whirled and in a frenzy began yanking open drawers and tearing through cabinets, their contents falling harshly to the floor. She ransacked her closet, looked under the bed, tore the mattress off the frame, thrust her hands down pillowcases, unzipped the pillows themselves, and felt the foam rubber for lumps. The laundry closet, the washer and dryer, the umbrella stand…

  It was here…somewhere. It had to be…but where?

  Somewhere in her apartment was a ticking time bomb. How many were there?

  Back to the kitchen, she knelt on the floor to reach a low drawer dedicated to cloth napkins, pot holders, and place mats. Reaching far to the back, she began feeling her way through them as if she were blind, feeling for something…and found it at last.

  It was wrapped inside a set of old kitchen towels she’d brought up from Atlanta.

  It was still crusted in blood.

  Hailey unfolded a single, four-pronged poultry-lifter. The last time she had seen one like it was in an Atlanta courtroom, when she’d held it in her left hand, arm outstretched, walking the length of the jury rail.

  Instinct made Hailey raise the lifter up under the vented hood over the stove to inspect it. It was the same…. She knew before looking.

  A Norpro, identical to the one used in Atlanta. A solid, stainless-steel Norpro…an evil-looking poultry-lifter with steely sharp prongs.

  Glancing again at the shades pulled down snug over the windows, she walked back to the silverware drawer and pulled out the twine.

  Again, she knew, before she’d even turned it upside down to read the label, that it would be the exact same type as used in the Atlanta murders.

  Sisson Imports, made in France. Three hundred inches of it, glossy and white.

  When did he plant it?

  In her other hand, the four-pronged lifter felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

  Whose blood was crusted on the tines? Melissa’s? Hayden’s? Someone else’s? Another one of her patients whose body was yet to be discovered?

  The pressure in her head was unbearable; she could literally feel the blood draining from her lips.

  How long would it be until the police came to search her apartment?

  They would find her here with the weapon and the twine.

  No explanation would suffice. She had to destroy it. What else could she do? Go to Kolker and tell him, “Gee, I just found the murder weapon in my kitchen drawer and I can’t imagine how it got there…”

  What to do?…what to do?

  What would they expect her to do?

  Wrap it in a plastic bag and throw it out in the garbage? Then throw it down the trash chute, where it would be discovered in the main receptacle? Identifiable in the same bag with all the junk mail with her name and address on it mixed with kitchen debris and other trash? Traceable right down to batch, lot, and specific D’Agostino’s grocery store where she’d bought the trash bag? They’d probably even dig up some grainy surveillance video of her actually at D’Ag’s buying trash bags.

  Or should she hurl it into the dark waters of the East River while out on a run?

  Too predictable.

  How many times had she sent divers down to retrieve a weapon? Piece of cake. She had even gone on dives herself to then explain the process to jurors in openings and closings.

  It rarely took more than three hours underwater to find the knife or gun in the waterway closest to a suspect’s home or office. Or at least part of a gun. Occasionally, the perp might be wily enough to remove the barrel from his automatic, rendering it useless for cross ballistics identification purposes.

  But this was no gun. It was a seamless, shiny, solid piece of steel, no way to dismantle it.

  It was a four-pronged lethal weapon disguised as a kitchen implement, and it had sliced through the lungs of two of her patients…that she knew of.

  The East River was out.

  The blood was the thing. Simple bleach wouldn’t work. Ajax…no. Clorox…no. Laundry detergent…no. She needed something with enzymes….

  Reaching far back to the rear of the cabinet, she found it: Black Swan Muriatic Acid. The stone worker had left it behind it when he laid slate in the kitchen and the cement bathroom base beneath the tiles. Muriatic, or hydrochloric, acid would be most likely to destroy DNA. For now, she lined the kitchen sink and surrounding counters with layers of plastic wrap, turned on the hot water in the kitchen faucet, and slowly washed her patients’ blood off the steel tines of the lifter.

  Then she poured the cleaner from its plastic container across the sink and into it, completely immersing the lifter in pure muriatic acid. It might not be perfect, but it was the best shot she had. She did it gently, so as to cause no spatter on the sides of the sink. One swipe with Luminol would catch each drop, but this was the best she could do, tonight anyway.

  After rinsing the sink and drying the lifter with paper towels, she carried the ball of twine to the bathroom sink. With her, she took the matchbook she kept in the kitchen drawer beside the gas stove and turned on the overhead shower vent. It took three matches to set the twine on fire.

  She added in the paper towels, the hand towels that had wrapped the weapon and the plastic wrap from the kitchen. She watched as it was totally consumed, until there was nothing left but ashes.

  On the fourth flush of the toilet, it was all gone.

  Back in the kitchen, she again rinsed the entire sink with the muriatic cleanser, took out the drain stopper, unscrewed the bottom of it, and allowed the pieces to fall apart. Heading to the trash chute, she threw the pieces down, hearing them fall against the metal sides of the shaft until the sounds disappeared.

  Now, the weapon. She walked through the apartment…searching. Then, in the den, her eyes focused on a mosaic lighting fixture, amber mosaics beautifully pieced together in a bowl-form, facing upward against the ceiling. Dragging over a bar stool, she stood up on it and gently placed the weapon inside the fixture. There.

  She climbed down and surveyed the room.

  The murder weapon, State’s Exhibit Number One against her, was completely concealed.

  For now.

  She sank into a chair, sitting there in the dark of her apartment.

  Clint Burrell Cruise.

  Here in the city.

  Was he here to kill her? Or just frame her and send her to the electric chair, just like she had sent him?

  She methodically searched her apartment again and found nothing more planted. But one thing was missing…her favorite hairbrush was gone from the drawer beneath her bathroom mirror. She always kept it there. That explained a lot. The “forensics” Kolker had been so thrilled about…she didn’t need to see the lab report to know that the hairs
found on Melissa and Hayden were hers…straight from her own hairbrush.

  She looked at the clock. It was 2 a.m.

  In four hours, the morning rush would be in full swing at the Century Diner a few blocks away.

  She’d be ready.

  69

  New York City

  HE STILL WASN’T CRAZY ABOUT NEW YORK, BUT CRUISE COULDN’T complain about the food.

  Roast Long Island duckling.

  Filet mignon.

  Stuffed lobster.

  He was visiting the best restaurants in the world…restaurants whose chefs were once friends of his back in culinary school.

  Imagine if they knew he was here, dining on their creations, all picked out of metal dumpsters behind each restaurant.

  Most of it was barely touched, having been served to thin, wealthy women who frequented Manhattan’s five-star restaurants strictly for the scene. Forget the food…they couldn’t care less about the artistry behind each dish.

  Most people would likely recoil at the thought of devouring the remains of food that had first been on somebody else’s plate. But they’d never eaten at Reidsville State Pen.

  He was definitely eating better than he was sleeping…seeking out park benches, subway tunnels, and, when the cold was the worst, the city’s homeless shelters.

  He imagined Hailey in her apartment in the sky, asleep beneath blankets on her bed.

  What did she wear when she slept? A nightgown? A T-shirt? Did she have silk sheets or high-count cotton? What did she keep in her refrigerator? What was in her closet…her drawers?

  All he had to do was get past the doorman and up to her apartment door. He’d been watching the service entrance and underground parking entrance. Visitors, movers, and work crews were in and out all day. He could easily slip in there…but what floor? Oh, yes, the bar directory had given him that on a silver platter.

  For now, though, he’d have to settle for watching from a distance.

  Tonight he was lurking on the steps of a brownstone down the block, keeping an eye on the entrance to her building, hoping she would emerge. Nobody seemed to be home. He wondered how he could get in.

  He hadn’t seen her yet…but he was sure there were no other entrances than these two, and he had a bird’s eye view of both.

  The wind off the East River was bitter. Soon he’d call it a night and find a place to bed down. Probably at one of the shelters, he thought, and sighed, his breath puffing out frosty in the night air…. Unless he could jimmy a door or window here at the brownstone.

  Then a shadow loomed behind him in the glow of the street lamp.

  “Cruise.”

  What the hell?

  Who here knew his name?

  Cruise turned around.

  Stunned, he managed to ask, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He spotted the glint of a butcher knife’s blade. Cruise twisted away and it struck his arm, just inches from a vein.

  Ignoring the gushing blood, he fought off the attack.

  Working out daily for years in prison had made him even stronger. After throwing a brutal left jab to the throat, Cruise took off as best he could. He found a filthy rag in a garbage can and used it to stave the flow of blood from the gaping wound on his forearm. If he hadn’t turned at the last second, he’d be lying in the city’s morgue right now wearing a John Doe toe-tag.

  70

  New York City

  AT 6:30 A.M., HAILEY’S HEAD SNAPPED UP FROM WHERE IT RESTED on her chest for the last two hours.

  It was time for breakfast.

  The walk was just a few blocks, the shorter the better, and getting there was crucial. There was absolutely no reason for them to stop her, question her, detain her. But cops didn’t always need a reason. Who would a jury believe? Two cops or her, carrying a murder weapon concealed inside her sweatshirt?

  In her bedroom, she pulled on sweats and running shoes, and snapped on her plastic running watch. Over her clothes, she pulled on an extra, baggy sweatshirt. With no time to waste, she headed into the den.

  Climbing up on the kitchen stool, she removed the sharp-pronged lifter from the mosaic ceiling fixture where it spent the night.

  The sweatshirt was several sizes too large and hung loosely on her, leaving plenty of room. Wrapping it gingerly in a bath towel, she gently turned the deadly tines away from her stomach as she slipped the weapon into the pouch in front of her sweatshirt. Taking one last look around the apartment, she left, locking the door behind her.

  It was 6:38 a.m.

  The elevator descended from the floor just above her. When the doors slid open, there stood a man in running attire like herself, but with a golden retriever attached to a leash. He stood in the far corner. Not recognizing him, she almost backed off the elevator, but realizing that would seem unusual and, more important, memorable, if asked by police, she stepped on as normal. She kept her eyes down, focused on the dog.

  The security cam in the upper corner bored into her.

  She shifted to the corner and glanced over. He was staring straight into her face.

  “Out for a run?” he asked.

  Red flag. He was engaging in unsolicited conversation. Her antennae shot up immediately. A normal New Yorker would never do that.

  She nodded politely.

  “Me too,” he responded, trying to engage her in conversation.

  The guy was standing there stiffly, just like a cop would. And his shoes. He said he was going running, but his shoes were tennis shoes, not running shoes. His jacket was extremely lightweight, not for outdoor winter running. Were those slacks under his running pants? She couldn’t tell…. This was bad.

  The bell dinged. Lobby. She was out like a shot, as fast as she could walk without breaking into a full-blown sprint right there across the lobby floor.

  It was empty but for the doorman, who called out after her, “Have a good run, Hailey!” Ricky blurted it out after her just as she darted past him and his morning newspaper.

  Great…if the elevator guy hadn’t been sure before, now he definitely knew it was her.

  She might have one thing on him though…she could run.

  She didn’t bother to answer, just blew out the door. The cool air off the East River hit her and she ran north for all she was worth.

  Cutting the corner against a red light, she glanced back over her left shoulder. She heard wild yelping and saw the elevator guy, fifty feet behind her now, trying to jog, but his retriever had tangled immediately in a knot of other leashes—a dog walker coming his way with an even dozen dogs, all shapes and sizes.

  One block north, she looked back: no sign of him.

  It was 6:43 a.m.

  She cut left, heading west up the incline. She heard barking in the distance behind her…at just the right spot, she darted left into a parking garage and circled back south toward her own apartment, cutting through alleys and garages until she made it back just two doors from her own building’s entrance. She headed north, and in the distance, she could see him…the elevator guy. He looked to be getting farther and farther away with every step.

  She had four city blocks on him and turned left, heading west crosstown. Two more blocks and two more avenues, and she was right where she wanted to be.

  Ducking into the Century Diner, she immediately saw that there was a wait. She made her way politely through the crowd made up of the early business crew, all of them headed to offices around the city. In an hour, they’d be replaced by the more laid-back bunch: designers, sales, elderly retirees still on work schedules. Then would come the leisure brunch crowd, followed by moms with their babies in strollers.

  Not a single suited male looked up from the business sections. They barely noticed her graze past.

  She walked straight to the single bathroom positioned just across a narrow hallway from the diner’s kitchen. The kitchen was a madhouse, already in the throes of a hot, sweaty, frenzied morning rush.

  The tiny bathroom was empty. She locked the do
or at the knob and with a latch, and looked at her little plastic Casio.

  It was 6:53 a.m.

  The bathroom was hot, overly heated by its next-door neighbor, the kitchen. Putting the lid down on the commode, she stepped on top and reached up to remove one of the perforated ceiling blocks above her. Staring up, she realized there was no way to hoist herself up. She placed the square back into position and looked around the tiny bathroom. There had to be a way. This was her only plan…if she could just get up there….

  Only one other choice. She stepped up off the commode and over onto the sink, a full foot higher up. Standing on its two outer edges, she reached up again, lifting away a second block.

  Pay dirt.

  Using all her upper body strength, she pulled herself up on the two-by-four over the door beside the sink. Her foot kicked loudly against the door when she used it instinctively for leverage and she froze, waiting for a reaction from the other side.

  Not a sound.

  She hoisted herself through the opening and gently placed the square back where it belonged. She was in the pitch dark now and began to crawl through the dark, clammy ceiling space. It was musty and filthy, obviously undisturbed for years, if not decades.

  Peering down through tiny holes in the ceiling squares as she crawled, she could see there was no one in the tiny hall waiting for the bathroom…yet. But she’d have to hurry.

  She kept moving forward. She only had about fifteen more feet to go. She could see through the tiny specked holes in the ceiling squares that now she was over the kitchen. But the kitchen wasn’t good enough.

  She needed the sinks…deep, steel industrial sinks, by this time, inches deep in gray soapy water and dirty dishes.

  Pressing her eye to a hole in the ceiling tile, she spotted it on the far wall.

  On her stomach, she army-crawled across the filth, making her way over and looking down through another tiny hole, just in time to see a short, thin busboy dump a stack of gooey egg dishes into the sink. She was right. The sink was half-full of dishes covered in water, iced with liquid soap bubbles.