by Owen Parr
“Joey, Special Agent Tony, here.”
I glanced around the table opening my eyes widely, “Hey, Special Agent Tony. How you doin?” I asked, in my New York-Italian slang.
“Did you see the press conference?” Tony asked, in a serious tone, almost pissed, I would say.
“I did, I did. Why?”
“Did you not share what we put together with the NYPD?” he asked, a bit agitated now.
“I was there when they interrogated this so-called suspect. I told them they had it wrong.”
“What did they say? Hang on a second, Joey,” Tony said, covering the mouthpiece, ‘Thank you, Marcy.’” His tone went calmer, all of a sudden.
“Where are you, Tony?” I asked.
“Over at Marcy’s. We went to the range today, and she asked me to stay for dinner. She made this incredible vaca frita. You know what that is? Shredded beef, pan-fried, a little garlic and onions—”
Fuck that, I said to myself. I interrupted, “I got it, I got it. How long are you going to be there? I was going to call Marcy,” I lied, now I was pissed.
“I’m taking off in a few minutes. Anyway, they have this all wrong, man. That suspect does not fit the profile.”
“As I said, I told them that.”
“Well, they’re going to piss this guy off, and he’s going to strike again. And soon.”
“I told them that, also, Tony. I’m sure that by tomorrow they’ll have to clear this guy.”
“Yeah, well, tomorrow might be too late for the next victim. Do you have any updates on your own? Anything you want to share?” Tony asked.
“Nothing new. I’ve updated my group on the wonderful profile you put together. We’re still working on this,” I replied, stroking his ego and not wanting to share any new information we had.
“Okay, Mancuso. We’ll talk tomorrow, and I’ll tell Marcy you’re going to call her. She’s making me a cafecito now. Take care,” he said, and then hung up.
Fuck you, asshole, I said, under my breath. Glancing at my group, I realized they were all staring at me, waiting for an update.
“So, … you heard that was GQ Tony. He’s upset no one paid attention to his profile.”
Patrick added, “Rightfully so, I say.”
“Hang on a second, honey,” Lucy said, and quipped, “What’s that stiff neck, pompous ass, doing at Marcy’s again?”
“He’s been helping her at the range. Marcy needs to take the FBI’s firearm test soon,” I replied.
Lucy quipped, “Helping her at the range? Yeah? You better put a target on that creepy ass guy, Mancuso. There’s more than target practice going on there.”
“Marcy assures me there’s nothing going on there, on her end,” I said, in a hushed manner, looking at Lucy.
“Oh, darling, I believe that on Marcy’s end, as you said. But this creepy crawler, Mr. Perfect, is salesman, honey. He is selling, selling, all the time. Look out for that type.”
“Point taken, let’s get out of here. We’ll reconvene tomorrow,” I said.
Mr. Pat leaned over and whispered, “Burger and a beer?”
I was more than ready. “You’re on.”
10
I arrived at the Midtown South Precinct on West 35th Street at nine in the morning. The observation that Mr. Pat made yesterday about all the murders taking place within blocks of the precinct was intriguing. What I couldn’t fathom was his other observation that the crimes were directed at me. Still shaking my head over this bizarre connection, I decided to file away that last thought.
Detective Charles approached me, “Joey, we’re meeting in the conference room. Join us.”
Detective Farnsworth and Captain Johnson, already there, looked despondent. The captain pointed to a seat for me to take. “You were right, Joey,” he began, “the suspect was released this morning. He had a legitimate alibi; he was nowhere near any of the murders when they occurred.”
Pounding on the table, Farnsworth added, “Yeah, but he’s still a pervert, just not our pervert.”
Ignoring Farns’ comment, I asked the captain, “So, where are you now?”
The captain, in his brusque fashion, shoved the murder book aside, and replied, “We’ve wasted a whole day, and the Mayor is pissed. Pissed. He says we made him look like a fool. The pressure is on.”
I queried, “So now he’s blaming you guys for them not being forthcoming with the news about a serial killer?”
“That’s politics, right?” Johnson asked.
“I hate to say it, but—”
Pushing back from the table, Farns interrupted me, “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Consultant, you said as much yesterday. What have you done?”
“We’ve been busy profiling our victims,” I replied. I was about to explain everything we had uncovered, but then I thought about Mr. Pat’s, observation. “What if the unsub is in law enforcement himself. And, what about the fact that all the murders are happening within walking distance of this precinct?” I decided to hold back the information and plan of attack related to social media at the moment, and simply said, “I’ll have more, later. My research lady is looking into the backgrounds of the victims for other clues.”
Farns got up from his chair, “Fuck this. Charles and I have a few visits to make. We might as well start with other known sexual offenders we have in our files. We probably should have done that before.”
That would have been smart of them to do. But again … both detectives left the room leaving me alone with the captain. I asked, “Where’s Lucy?”
“She should be here momentarily, she was delayed,” he replied, sitting back. “Somehow I think you have more than what you shared with us.”
I glanced at the door to make sure we were alone, “I do. But, for the moment this has to stay between us.”
The captain leaned forward, “Why? What do you have?”
“For one thing, all the victims lived within walking distance of this precinct. All were involved in the law profession or related field. And—”
The captain’s eyes opened wide, interrupting me, he asked in astonishment, “Wait, you think someone in this precinct is the suspect?”
“No, I didn’t say that, well, at least I hope he’s not from this precinct. However, I don’t believe in coincidences. I have a strong feeling our unsub is in the law enforcement field.”
Placing his elbows on the table and covering his face with both hands, Captain Johnson said, “Shit, that’s going to make the mayor blow a fuse.” Raising his head and looking straight into my eyes, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“As I said, I’m not sure yet.”
“So, why not share with the detectives?” You think one of them could be our killer?”
“All I know is that it is not you, nor I. Everyone else is a suspect until they’re not. We also have a little sting operation going on, and, if we are lucky, we may trap the suspect. We’re chumming the waters to see if our guy comes up.”
The captain asked with a little apprehension, “Do I want to know what you’re doing?” Are you up to one of your charades?”
I sat back and laughed, “All of my charades, as you call them, have proved effective. Besides, we’re not doing anything illegal. Look, we’ve uncovered, based on their social media profile, that all these ladies were a bit sexually permissive. I don’t want to imply they were asking for it. But, anyone looking at their Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram profiles, would think they were looking to get hooked up.”
The captain leaned forward, “So, what’s your plan?”
I went on to tell the captain about our fishing expedition. Even though it was a long shot, and, while it may take some time to develop, it was the only thing we had going. Hopefully, no more bodies will surface. Although, my gut feeling was that the killer had something to prove.
Lucy walked into the conference room with a broad smile, flashing those pearly whites of hers. “Good morning, Captain, Joey, sorry I’m late.”
I said, looking at the captai
n, “This lady can walk into a funeral and light up the room with that smile of hers. Makes everyone wonder what the hell she knows that they don’t.”
The captain smiled, “I know, I’ve enjoyed that smile for years. Got anything for us, Lucy?”
“Let me sit down and review this report from ViCAP, which I just got. Glancing it over, I do not see an exact match; no record of the same exact modus operandi. Either this killer is new, or, he knows to change his signature, so they can’t track him.”
I wheeled my chair in closer to the table, and added, “He wants recognition, and his narcissistic behavior would indicate he wants credit for his acts. But, perhaps he is smart enough to change signatures. Anything close to what we have here in New York?”
Lucy, keeping her eyes on the file, replied, “Unfortunately, quite a few unsolved cases are dealing with extreme sex; only a few with anal sex, but none with a cross on the breasts.”
I had my arms on the table, and opening my palms, I inquired, “How about extreme sex, strangulation, together with anal sex, and cuts of any kind?”
“This is a long list,” Lucy replied, looking up from the file, “I suppose I could rerun the program inputting those parameters.”
“I think you should,” the captain said, “start with two of those parameters, then add a third, and a fourth. Let’s see what we get.”
Lucy replied, “Yes, I’ll do that.” Then glancing at me, she asked, “Did you share anything on our fishing trip?”
Pointing at Captain Alex, I replied, “Only with him, no one else.”
“Good,” Lucy said.
“Let me ask,” said the captain, “what happens if you get a bite on your social media profiles? What is your plan then?”
“We plan on being there and observe.”
Johnson asked, “Wouldn’t it be better to have an undercover cop play the role of your lady?”
I replied, “Absolutely. But, she would have to meet the physical profile of our victims, if it’s going to work.”
The captain smiled, “There’s a young lady at the 25th Precinct in vice who just moved up from Miami. She wants to switch to homicide. I think she’d be perfect. She’s blonde, but that can easily be rectified. What do you think?”
Lucy looked at me and nodded. I replied, “Let’s meet her.”
Johnson pulled out his cell phone, “Want to meet her here?”
Shaking my head, I replied, “No, not here. Have her met us at the pub later this evening.”
Lucy asked, “What’s her name?”
Captain Johnson thought for a second, “Angela Asis, originally from Barcelona, Spain. You’ll tell her how she needs to look. She’s young, attractive, and outgoing.”
I searched for a picture of Marcy on my phone, handed it to the captain, and asked, “Do you think she can look like Marcy?”
“Why Marcy?”
I didn’t want to reply. I hesitated, not wanting to tie the two together.
Lucy said, “Because all the victims have similarities to Marcy. Hair, eyes, a little younger, but not much. It’s freaky.”
Johnson couldn’t take his eyes off Marcy’s picture. “Angela is a perfect match. Amazing, I had no idea—the similarities to our vics.”
11
I walked into the pub a little after five-thirty in the afternoon. It was lively, with our first shift of Wall Streeters enjoying their premium drinks and cigars. A thin layer of white grayish cigar smoke hovered above the back area of the pub. A second later, poof—the puff sucked up by our pricy exhaust system, which by the way, had been an excellent investment on our part. No one ever complained about the smoke or smell of the cigars. Instead what lingered was the natural aroma of the pub, that infusion of spirits of all kinds, and the occasional brewed espresso. The pub enjoyed a life of its own.
Sammy Davis’s songs warmed up the crowd while waiting for the main act: Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” which played every evening at seven, and to which the patrons sang along. They loved it.
As it happened every time “a good-looking babe,” as Sinatra would say, walked unaccompanied into the pub, the crowd went silent. I happened to be standing at the very end of the bar when I noticed a lull in the room. It was as if, the pub held its collective breath. I half expected to see Police Commissioner O’Malley, who occasionally stops in for a visit. But, when I looked up and turned to my right, I immediately thought, Marcy? Then, I realized this young primo looking; fully-loaded lady was a blonde, a Marcy look-alike. Oh boy, I said under my breath.
Riley MacClenny, our new pub manager, was at the entrance of the pub serving some drinks. He turned to face her, scratched his red-beard, and with his Irish brogue asked, “May I help you, lassie?”
The young lady smiled at Riley, and replied in a smoky voice with a slight Spanish accent, “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for Joseph Mancuso.”
Riley turned and pointed his index finger at me, which frankly was what I was hoping for. Then, he turned back to the primo lady and said, “You mean Joey. See that rough looking guy, with the slick black hair behind the bar, at the end? That’s Joey.”
I raised my right hand to wave at her, as she began walking towards me. Slowly, the crowd resumed their conversations, and once again, the pub went back to its natural sound.
“Hi, Joey, I’m Angela Asis,” she said, unbuttoning her coat, and sitting on a stool in front of me. “You’re staring.”
“Hi, Angela. Sorry about that, but, you look very much like someone I know, but blonde.”
“You mean Marcy. Yes, I know.”
“You know about Marcy?”
“I’ve been briefed. And, I have read all the press reports from earlier this year when Marcy was shot in the plane at Newark. Preventing those radical Islamists from creating a mass shooting was quite a heroic act on her part. How is she doing?”
“Unfortunately, a Federal Marshal was killed in the incident. But, yes, it could have been devastating if the two shooters had had a chance to start their killing spree in the plane. Marcy is doing much better, thank you. She is getting ready to take the FBI fitness and firearms test and be reinstated.”
“Sounds good. Now, tell me about this case.”
“Are you still on the clock?”
“No, I’m off-duty now?”
“How about an adult beverage?”
“A beer maybe.”
“One Brooklyn Lager coming up. Glass or bottle?”
“Bottle is fine, thank you.”
I reached to my right and pulled out two locally brewed Brooklyn Lagers, from one of the many ice packed buckets that we kept with various brands of beers, around the pub. I wrapped a paper napkin around her bottle, popped the top, and handed it to her. Then, I did the same to mine. “How much do you know about the case?” I asked, looking around to make sure we had some privacy.
Angela took a sip from her beer, put it down, peeled the napkin back a bit to look at the label, and replied, “I’m aware of all the incidents, have reviewed the murder book, and, have been read in, as to the trap you want to set.”
Not all Spanish accents are the same. I’ve heard my share here in New York. Spaniards have a distinct accent when speaking English, and Angela’s was no exception. It sounded like a female romantic and a melodic version of Julio Iglesias, the Spanish singer. I could listen to her for hours, but no, back to business. “Okay, so you know only a few people have been read into this, right?”
“I do.”
“As you know, we are posting numerous profiles in social media, and some group pages, all with the characteristics of the victims; from physical to likes, as well as preferences,” I said, glancing around.
Angela flashed a smile, “Some of which are going to be quite explicit about sexual permissiveness.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Joey, I’ve been in the vice squad in Miami for a few years. This is like playing dolls again. But, I have two questions.”
I leaned forward on the bar. “Whic
h are?”
“First, you are going to post multiple profiles. What about pictures? You can’t post my face in all of them.”
I motioned with my hand for her to stop there. “We’re going to do it in such a way that we don’t show your frontal profile. Well, not your face anyway. You’re going to have to pose for a photo layout. What’s the next question?”
“How are we going to filter for the many perverts that are going to respond to these postings? All these social sites are full of them.”
“I know,” I replied, and noticed she had finished her beer. “How about another beer?”
“Sure.”
Handing her another lager, I replied, “We know the guy is local. We are pretty sure he is in law enforcement, like our victims, and he, most likely is a member of one of these social groups. So, at the moment, we’ll ignore the other perverts as you say.”
“Great, I’m ready to start. Tell me something about that photo hanging on the wall behind you,” she said, pointing past me at the wall.
I didn’t have to look. I knew the photo she was referring to. I smiled, “That’s one of the twenty-two black and white photos we have around the pub. That one happens to be the oldest one of the bunch. In 1948, the Captain O’Brian opened the pub. That photo was him with Truman Capote when Capote released his first novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms.”
“I love it,” Angela said, and asked, “Have you visited Cuba?”
“Only Little Havana in Miami. Otherwise, no. Why do you ask?”
“The Hotel Nacional de Cuba, in Havana, has four bars within the property. One of them, called; Vista al Golfo Bar, has pictures of celebrities who visited the Hotel going back to the 1930’s. Your pub reminds me of that bar.”
“So, you’ve been to Cuba?”
“I’ve kept my Spanish passport, so it was easy, yes.”
“Pleasure, or business?” I inquired, only because I was curious. It was none of my business.
She smiled, glanced around and replied, “If I tell you, —” she paused.
“Okay, I got it, you’ll have to kill me.”
“Exactly. When do I meet the rest of your team?”
