Peter Pan Must Die

by John Verdon

  “What do you mean, ‘chancy’?”

  “I would think, after that—after killing twenty-one people because of an overdue payment—potential customers might worry about dealing with him. They might want to deal with someone less … touchy.”

  “ ‘Touchy’? I’m telling you, Gurney, you’re a fucking riot. ‘Touchy’—that’s good! But what you don’t understand is that Peter has a special advantage. Peter is unique.”

  “How so?”

  “Peter takes the impossible jobs. The ones other guys say can’t be done—too risky, the target is too protected, shit like that. That’s where Peter comes in. Likes to prove he’s better than anyone else. You see what I mean? Peter is a unique resource. Highly motivated. High determination. Nine times out of ten he gets the job done. But the thing is … there’s always the possibility of some collateral damage.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Example? Like maybe the time he was hired to hit a target on one of them high-speed Greek island ferries, but he didn’t know what the guy looked like, only that he was going to be on the boat at a particular time. So what did he do? He blew the fucking thing out of the water, killed about a hundred people. But I’ll tell you something else. It ain’t just that he produces collateral damage—the word is he likes it. Fires. Explosions. Bigger the better.”

  That started Gurney wondering about a lot of things. But he kept coming back to one central question: Exactly what was it that made Panikos seem like the right choice for the Spalter hit? What made that job seem impossible?

  Angelidis interrupted his train of thought. “Hey, I almost forgot, one more thing—the thing everyone who was there still talks about. The thing that really got to them. You ready for this?” It wasn’t really a question. “While little Peter was going around the town, wiping that whole fucking family off the face of the earth—guess what he was doing.” He paused, real excitement in his eyes. “Guess.”

  Gurney shook his head. “I don’t guess.”

  “Don’t matter. You couldn’t guess it anyway.” He leaned forward another inch. “He was singing.”

  Before Gurney left the restaurant garden, he looked out again through the open doors in the back wall. He could see the Spalter plot clearly—all of it, with no light pole obstructing any part of it.

  He heard Angelidis’s fingers tapping restlessly on the tabletop.

  Gurney turned toward him and asked, “Do you ever think about Carl when you look over at Willow Rest?”

  “Sure. I think about him.”

  Watching Angelidis’s fingers drumming on the metal surface, Gurney asked, “Does knowing that Panikos was the paid hitter tell you anything about the buyer?”

  “Sure.” The drumming stopped. “It tells me that he knew his way around. You don’t go to your phone book, look up ‘Panikos,’ and say, ‘Hey, I got a job for you.’ It don’t work that way.”

  Gurney nodded. “Very few people would know how to get in touch with him,” he said, sounding like he was talking to himself.

  “Peter accepts contracts through maybe half a dozen guys in the world. You have to be well placed to know who those guys are.”

  Gurney let a silence build between them before asking, “Would you say that Kay Spalter was well placed?”

  Angelidis stared at him. He appeared to find the suggestion surprising, but his only answer was a shrug.

  Turning to leave, Gurney had a final question.

  “What was he singing?”

  Angelidis looked confused.

  “Panikos, while he was shooting everybody.”

  “Oh, yeah. Some little kid song. Whaddya call ’em—nursery rhymes?”

  “Do you know which one?”

  “How would I know that? Something about roses, flowers, some shit like that.”

  “He was singing a nursery rhyme about flowers? While he was walking around shooting people in the head?”

  “You got it. Smiling like an angel and singing his little song in a little-girl voice. The people who heard that—they never forgot it.” Angelidis paused. “The thing you got to know about him—most important thing—I’ll tell you what it is. He’s two people. One—precise, exact, everything a certain way. The other—very fucking crazy.”

  Chapter 42

  The Missing Head

  Gurney stopped at the first gas station he came to on the route from Long Falls to Walnut Crossing—for gas, for coffee (having barely touched the cup at the Aegean Odyssey), and to send another email to Jonah Spalter. He decided to take care of the last item first.

  He checked the wording and tone of his previous message and purposely made this one more jagged, definitely unsettling, less clear, with an amped-up level of urgency—more like a harried text message than an email:

  Increasing flow of new data, obvious corruption. Conviction reversal and aggressive new investigation to come. Family dynamics key issue? Could it be as simple as FOLLOW THE MONEY? How might CyberCath financial stress play into the investigation? Should meet ASAP for frank discussion of new facts.

  He read it over twice. If its edginess and ambiguity didn’t provoke some communication from Jonah, he had no idea what would. Then he went into the shabby little convenience store for his coffee and a plain bagel, which turned out to be stale and hard. He was hungry enough to eat it anyway. The coffee, however, was surprisingly fresh, giving him a fleeting sense of okayness.

  He was about to pull over to the gas pumps when he realized that he still hadn’t told Hardwick about his meeting with Mick Klemper at Riverside Mall and the subsequent arrival in his mailbox of the Long Falls security video. He decided to take care of that immediately.

  The call went into voice mail, and he left a message. “Jack, I need to fill you in on some developments with Klemper. We had a little discussion about the various ways the story could end, some less painful for him than others, and, magically, the missing video turned up in my mailbox. The man may be trying to cushion his fall, and we need to talk about the implications. Also, you’ll want to see the video. No obvious inconsistencies with the witness reports, but it’s sure as hell worth a look. Get back to me as soon as you can.”

  This reminded him of another urgent task that had been side-lined—viewing the video segments from the other three cameras in the four-camera array, particularly the two labeled EAST and WEST, since they would have captured images of individuals approaching or leaving the building. Pondering the potential boost such evidence might give the investigation pushed Gurney’s driving speed well above the posted limits for the rest of the trip home.

  He was surprised, then confused, then worried to find Madeleine’s car still parked where it was when he’d left that morning for Long Falls, expecting that she would be leaving moments after him for the Winkler farm.

  Entering the house with an anxious frown, he found her at the kitchen sink, washing dishes.

  “What are you still doing here?” There was an edge of accusation in his voice, which she ignored.

  “Right after you left, as I was getting in my car, Mena arrived in her minivan.”

  “Mena?”

  “From Yoga Club? Remember? You just had dinner with her.”

  “Ah. That Mena.”

  “Yes, that Mena—not any of the multitude of other Menas we know.”

  “Right. So she arrived in her minivan? For what?”

  “Well, ostensibly to bring us the bounty of her garden. Take a look in the mudroom—yellow squash, garlic, tomatoes, peppers.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. But that was hours ago. And you’re still—”

  “It was hours ago when she arrived, but only forty-five minutes ago when she departed.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Mena likes to talk. You might have noticed that at dinner. But, to be fair, she has some serious difficulties in her life, family problems, things she had to get off her chest. She needed someone to talk to. I didn’t feel I could cut her off.”

  “What
kind of problems?”

  “Oh, Lord, everything from parents with Alzheimer’s, to a brother in prison for drug dealing, to nieces and nephews with every known psychiatric disorder—I don’t know … do you really want to hear about this?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Anyway, I made her some lunch, tea, more tea. I didn’t want to leave the dirty dishes for you, so that’s what I’m doing now. And you? You look like you’re in a hurry to do something.”

  “I was planning on reviewing the Long Falls security videos.”

  “Security videos? Oh, God, I almost forgot! Did you know Jack Hardwick was on RAM-TV last night?”

  “He was where?”

  “RAM-TV. On that dreadful Criminal Conflict thing with Brian Bork.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Kyle called an hour ago to find out if you’d seen it.”

  “Last time Hardwick spoke to me was from Cooperstown … midday yesterday? He didn’t tell me he had any plan to—”

  She cut him off. “You’d better take a look at it. It’s in the current archive section of their website.”

  “You watched it?”

  “I took a quick look at it after Mena left. Kyle said we needed to see it ASAP.”

  “It’s … a problem?”

  She pointed to the den. “The RAM website is open on the computer. You watch it, then you tell me if it’s a problem.” Her troubled expression told him she’d already reached her own conclusion.

  A minute later he was at his desk, gazing at the practiced concern and gelled hair of Brian Bork. The Criminal Conflict host occupied one of two chairs positioned on opposite sides of a small table. He was leaning forward as though the importance of what he was about to say made it impossible to relax. The second chair was empty.

  He addressed the camera directly. “Good evening, my friends. Welcome to the real-life drama of Criminal Conflict. Tonight, we had intended to bring you a follow-up visit with Lex Bincher, the controversial attorney who stunned us just a few days ago with his no-holds-barred attack on the Bureau of Criminal Investigation—an attack designed to dismantle what he characterized as the fatally flawed conviction of Kay Spalter for the murder of her husband. Since then there have been some shocking new developments in this already sensational case. The latest is the breaking story of mayhem and tragedy in the idyllic village of Cooperstown, New York. It involves arson, multiple homicides, and the ominous disappearance of Lex Bincher himself, who was scheduled to be with us this evening. Instead, we’ll be hearing from Jack Hardwick—a private investigator who’s been working with Bincher. Investigator Hardwick is joining us from our RAM-TV affiliate in Albany.”

  A split-screen visual appeared, with Bork on the left and Hardwick, in a similar studio set, on the right. Hardwick, in one of his ubiquitous black polo shirts, appeared relaxed, which Gurney recognized as the oddly inverse public face the man sometimes put on his anger. The likely fury he felt at what had happened at Cooperstown and his personal contempt for Bork and RAM-TV were well concealed.

  Gurney had one question in mind: Why had Hardwick agreed to appear on a media outlet he hated?

  Bork continued, “First of all, thank you for accepting my invitation to join us on such short notice at such a stressful time. I understand you just came from that terrible scene by Otsego Lake.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can you describe it to us?”

  “Three lakeside homes burned to the ground. Six people burned to death, including two small children. A seventh victim was found in the lake under a small dock.”

  “Has that final victim been identified?”

  “That may take some time,” said Hardwick evenly. “His head is missing.”

  “Did you say his head is missing?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “The killer cut off the victim’s head? And then what? Is there any indication what might have happened to it?”

  “Maybe he hid it somewhere. Or dumped it somewhere. Or took it with him. Investigation is under way.”

  Bork shook his head—the gesture of a man who just can’t understand what the world is coming to. “That’s really appalling. Investigator Hardwick, I have to ask the obvious question. Are you thinking the mutilated body could belong to Lex Bincher?”

  “It could, yes.”

  “The obvious next question: What on earth is going on? Do you have an explanation you can share with our viewers?”

  “It’s pretty simple, Brian. Kay Spalter was framed for her husband’s murder by a thoroughly corrupt detective. She’s the victim of gross evidence tampering, gross witness tampering, and a grossly incompetent defense. Her conviction, of course, delighted the real murderer. It left him free to go about his deadly business.”

  Bork started to ask another question, but Hardwick cut him off. “The people involved in this case—not only the dishonest detective who railroaded an innocent woman into prison, but the whole team who condoned that farcical trial and conviction—they’re the ones who are ultimately responsible for the massacre today in Cooperstown.”

  Bork paused, as though taken aback by what he’d just heard. “That’s a very serious accusation. In fact, it’s the kind of accusation that’s likely to spark outrage in the law enforcement community. Are you concerned about that?”

  “I’m not accusing the general law enforcement community of anything. I’m calling out the specific members of that community who falsified evidence and colluded in the wrongful arrest and prosecution of Kay Spalter.”

  “Do you have the evidence you need to prove those charges?”

  Hardwick’s answer was immediate, calm, and unblinking. “Yes.”

  “Can you share that evidence with us?”

  “We’ll share it when the time comes.”

  Bork directed several more questions to Hardwick, trying without success to get him to be more specific. Then he suddenly switched gears and raised what he obviously considered the most provocative question of all. “What if you prevail? What if you thoroughly embarrass everyone who you claim was in the wrong? What if you win and succeed in setting Kay Spalter free—and later discover that she was guilty of murder after all? How would you feel about that?”

  For the first time in the interview, Hardwick’s contempt for Bork began to seep into his expression. “How would I feel about it? Feeling has nothing to do with it. What I would know would be exactly the same as what I know now: that the legal process was rotten. Rotten from start to finish. And the people responsible know who they are.”

  Bork looked up as if checking the time, then gazed into the camera. “Okay, my friends, you heard it here.” The half of the split screen devoted to him expanded to the full screen. Putting on the face of a brave witness to dire events, he invited his viewers to pay close attention to some important messages from his sponsors. He concluded, “Stay with us. We’ll be back in two minutes with news of a nasty new reproductive rights clash headed for a Supreme Court showdown. In the meantime, this is Brian Bork for Criminal Conflict, your nightly ringside seat at today’s most explosive legal battles.”

  Gurney closed the video window, shut down the computer, and sat back in his chair.

  “So what do you think of that?” Madeleine’s voice, close behind his chair, startled him.

  He turned to face her. “I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “Why he appeared on that program.”

  “You mean, apart from the fact that it offered him a big platform to take a free swing at his enemies—the folks who bounced him out of his job?”

  “Yes, apart from that.”

  “I guess, if all those accusations had a purpose beyond venting, it might be to attract maximum media attention—drag in as many investigative reporters as he can, get them all digging into the Spalter case and keeping it in the headlines as long as possible. You think that’s what it was all about?”

  “Or he might want to provoke a l
awsuit for slander, defamation, libel—a lawsuit he’s confident he could win. Or put the NYSP in a corner—knowing the individuals involved can’t sue him because he would win—and his real goal is to force the organization to toss Klemper to the wolves to cut their losses.”

  Madeleine looked skeptical. “I wouldn’t have thought his motives would be that subtle. You’re sure it’s not just plain old anger looking for something to smash?”

  Gurney shook his head. “Jack likes presenting himself as a blunt instrument. But there’s nothing blunt about the mind wielding the baseball bat.”

  Madeleine still looked skeptical.

  Gurney went on. “I’m not saying that he isn’t motivated by resentment. He is, clearly. He can’t stand the idea that he was forced out of a career he loved by people he despised. Now he despises them even more. He’s mad as hell, he wants revenge—that’s all true. I’m just saying that he isn’t stupid, and his tactics can be smarter than they appear to be.”

  That comment produced a brief silence, broken by Madeleine. “By the way, you didn’t tell me about … that … final little horror.”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  She mimicked the look. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh. The thing about the missing head? No … I didn’t tell you about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It seemed … too grisly.”

  “You were afraid I might find it upsetting?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Information management?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I remember an oily politician once explaining that he never engaged in deception; he merely managed the flow of information in an orderly manner to avoid confusing the public.”

  Gurney was tempted to argue that this was a different situation altogether, that his motive was truly noble and caring, but she upset his balance with a surprising little wink, as if to let him off the hook—and immediately another temptation took its place.

  Smart women tended to have an erotic effect on him, and Madeleine was a very smart woman indeed.